


Fear Not The Bugle

by Fire_Sign



Series: Snips and Snails and Squirrelly Tales [2]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Discussions of Miscarriage, F/M, discussions of abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 70,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6528130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turning the corner, Phryne saw Jack facing away from them and…bouncing? As they got closer he turned, revealing a toddler in his arms.<br/>“Ahh, just who I wanted to see,” he called.<br/>“Oh no,” Phryne objected. “This had better not be why you telephoned. I don’t do children, Jack. You know that.”<br/>"I was talking about Mrs. Collins,” Jack said, passing the toddler over to Dot. “But I’m glad to see that the universe continues its revolution around you.” </p>
<p> -------------------</p>
<p>In which Jack discovers an orphan and Phryne suffers a temporary loss of reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, months and months ago there was a discussion on Tumblr about Phrack and kids and as sometimes happens a story was born. But as much as I read kidfic, I have no desire to see it in canon or write it myself. Except the kid started to sneak in from time to time--the +1 in a 5+1 story about Jack's birthdays, drabbles, a prompt. I started to call in The Squirrel Fic--much like the dogs in Up with squirrels, it would distract me at the worst times.  
> "Oh," I said, "I'll write this short bit of fluff to get it out of my head and move on."  
> That... didn't happen. It wasn't, in the end, a fluffy story. Or short. I do hope that it's interesting, and true both to the characters and the show's themes. I'm still not certain which ending I will use; I realised that assuming that they end up with the kid just because I'd written fics where they had was causing me grief, and I... have multiple endings, and arguments for using them all. 
> 
> The title comes from a translation/adaptation of a Scottish lullaby by Sir Walter Scott called [Lullaby of an Infant Chief](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/lullaby-infant-chief).  
>  _O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,_  
>  _It calls but the warders that guard thy repose_
> 
> And as always, enormous thanks to the Phrack Slack writers and SarahToo and GaslightGallows in particular for being extra eyes and voices of reason.

**October 1932**

 

Phryne climbed out of the Hispano, waiting for Dot before walking the short distance to their crime scene. The address was around the corner, a narrow side street she didn't want to risk parking on. Turning down it, she saw the station's newest constable, who she hadn't yet met, and just beyond that Jack. He was facing away from them and...bouncing? As they got closer he turned, revealing a toddler in his arms.

"Ahh, just who I wanted to see," he called.

"Oh no," Phryne objected. "This had better not be why you telephoned. I don't _do_ children, Jack. You know that."

"I was talking about Mrs. Collins," Jack said, passing the toddler over to Dot. "But I'm glad to see that the universe continues its revolution around you."

"As it should," she shot back, then laughed at the red-haired constable's horrified face. She stuck out her hand. "Phryne Fisher-Robinson, occasional consultant and your inspector's...what is it this week, darling?"

Jack huffed. "Constable, this is Miss Fisher. Her household is responsible for the station's biscuit supply—"

"But not your personal stash," she interjected. "And eventually you'll stop referring to it as _my_ household."

He gave her a reproving look. "And this is Mrs. Collins, who Hugh has no doubt told you all about."

"Hello!" Dot said with a sweet smile, looking up from the child.

The constable nodded affably as he said hello, and Phryne decided that he was rather like Hugh Collins had been when he started and therefore liked him immensely.

"So, Inspector Robinson, you can't have called me all the way across town simply to rope my companion into minding this—" she looked at the child quickly. "Boy?"

Jack shook his head. "No, there is an actual investigation. Mrs. Collins, could I possibly trouble you to wait here until Welfare arrives? We telephoned them an hour ago, but as it is a Saturday who knows when they will actually deign to make an appearance."

"Of course, inspector," Dot replied, barely looking up before turning back to the child in her arms.

"His name is Anthony, according to the neighbours," Jack said. "We'll see you upstairs once he's safely off?"

Dot nodded absent-mindedly, and Phryne smiled.

"Come along then, Miss Fisher," Jack said, tilting his head towards a set of stairs that led to some flats. Phryne followed him, walking alongside as they started up. She paused to look back once; Dot was letting the boy walk around the small patch of grass in front of the building.

"You would think she doesn't have two of her own," Phryne remarked, smiling indulgently.

The Collins children were, in their own way, the exception to Phryne's aversion to children. Agnes was two and had three speeds: fast, faster, and fast asleep. Theobald was a pudgy ball of smiles at just shy of a year. Neither of them were her idea of pleasant companions, but they _were_ family and she loved them in her way. Which was, admittedly, quite a bit of encouraging Aggie-monster's willful nature—as if it was needed for a two year old—and waving at Theo from a safe distance.

As they reached the third floor, she noticed Jack slowing down almost imperceptibly.

"Is there any particular reason you have the new constable downstairs?"

"Guarding against journalists looking for a story."

"That bad?"

Jack sighed. "Not as bad as some, but enough to turn Mitchell green."

"Ahh," said Phryne. "And the...?"

"Found in his cot. His crying around noon is what alerted the neighbours."

"Unpleasant."

"You'll see soon enough," Jack said cryptically.

She noticed his cheek twitch and she stopped, folding her arms.

"Jack?"

"His mother was beaten."

"That's not usually enough to rattle you, darling."

"It should be," he said quietly, shaking his head. "Shall we, Miss Fisher?"

 

———

 

It was a small flat, just a kitchenette-cum-parlour and a single bedroom. The toilet was communal, found at the end of the hall. It was tidy—the only thing out of place was a pile of bloody cloth sitting by the kitchen sink; she assumed the killer had used it to clean before leaving. There were three officers, including Hugh Collins, in the small space, and all of them looked slightly disturbed. Phryne could smell the metallic tang of blood but could not see a body, so she went through to the bedroom, stopping a few steps inside the door.

It wasn't a large room. Which was, perhaps, why the blood was on so many surfaces.

"Did the neighbours hear anything?" she asked, sensing Jack behind her.

"Not that they'll say. The person directly below says that there are always arguments in the building, but nothing stood out last night or early this morning."

"Surely though, there had to have been _something_?"

"The speculation is that the first hit might have rendered her unconscious."

"The body?"

Jack pointed towards the bed, and Phryne moved around it. The woman laid between the bed and the child's cot beside it and Phryne hissed and turned her eyes away. As she did so they slid over the cot, noticing the stuffed dog covered in blood. A sudden suspicion struck her.

"Where was the child?"

"In his bed," Jack said quietly.

"Those weren't towels by the kitchen sink, were they?"

Jack shook his head.

"Just the ones used to clean him, once the photographer was done. Based on the—well, it looks like he might have slept through the event itself. Small mercies."

She shook her head, unable to find the words. Aggie had slept over one night, a few months earlier. Little Theo had taken suddenly ill and the Collins family's cottage was only just around the corner from Wardlow; Hugh had called, rather frantic, and asked if they could take Agnes in for the night. Phryne cut him off before he launched into an explanation of why their families couldn't, immediately agreeing; she had converted one of the servant quarters by the kitchen into a playroom/nursery after Dot had told her she was expecting, and it was no trouble at all. It had gone perfectly well, until the next morning. Aggie had woken up, and at the absence of her mother proceeded to scream and cry for mumma until Mr. Butler finally distracted her with some fresh scones. Phryne had not forgotten the franticness of the girl's cries, and it made it very easy to imagine what the child downstairs must have sounded like in order to alert the neighbours there was something wrong.

Phryne looked around the room, seeing no signs of a male presence.

"Is there a father in the picture?"

"No," said Jack. "Neighbours say she was widowed before Anthony was born."

"We'll want to confirm that," she said absently, still surveying the room. "Other visitors?"

"Not that the neighbours noticed."

"Did the neighbours give us _anything_ of use?"

"Just the name of her employer. Worked at a restaurant a couple of streets over. One of the neighbours watched the child when she did. We'll go over there next."

There wasn't anything else to get from the bedroom, in Phryne's opinion, and the blood and claustrophobia was getting to even her. No wonder the men had all been in the other room. She gave herself a shake and turned to Jack, forcing a small smile.

"Coroner?" she asked.

"Should be here any minute," Jack said. "We'll have him come in and remove the body; hopefully they can tell us more when they get her back to Mac."

This wasn't Mac's territory, strictly speaking; City South was, Phryne assumed, called in because it was a Saturday and Jack was the nearest DI, but it should have fallen under another morgue's purview. For Jack to have called in a favour to have Mac on the job... he was rattled. The pile of bloody clothes by the sink flashed in her mind again, and she had an image of Jack—she knew, somehow, that it had been Jack—carefully cleaning the boy, smiling to set him at ease but his eyes dark.

"Alright," said Phryne, trying for a hint of her usual levity. "We'll see what Mac says. Until then, you can take me for either a very late lunch or a very early supper."

 

———

 

Jack wanted to get out of the room. It was absurd, but when he'd arrived at the scene, he’d found that the responding constable—not one of his men, thankfully—had left the child in the cot, afraid to disturb the scene or possibly unable to cope with the sight. By the time Jack and Hugh had arrived the boy was so far beyond hysterical he'd had to restrain Collins from taking a punch, and Jack himself had given the constable a very thorough reminder of his priorities while Collins took the boy into the other room. The constable was suitably cowed, but Jack couldn't help but wonder when they started letting kids too young to shave into the academy.

One of his men, responsible for photographing the scene, had stood the child on a table to document the state of his clothing; when it was done, Jack, by virtue of being the closest officer with free hands, had taken him to the sink. Collins had found a spare set of clothes on one of the arm chairs, before retreating to telephone Welfare and then Phryne and Mrs. Collins. Jack had washed the child as quickly as possible, planning to pass him off to a constable while he investigated. The boy had clung to him instead, face still blotched red from his tears and utterly exhausted. Even Collins had given him a look when he came back in and then shrugged.

"Sometimes you can't argue with the little mites," Hugh said. "Aggie once clung onto Dot's great uncle for three hours straight. She'd never met him before."

And that was how Jack ended up carrying the boy from door to door, speaking to the neighbours. The victim was Helen Fox, a widow in her early twenties who had moved into the building before the child—Anthony, the first neighbour supplied—was born. Anthony had turned two a month before and was cared for by the neighbour Mrs. Bowen when Helen was working. Both mother and child were considered good neighbours; quiet, polite, and Anthony was always well turned out despite his mother's limited funds. No known difficulties were mentioned. One of the neighbours offered to take the boy in while they waited for Welfare's arrival, but he had fallen asleep on Jack and even unconscious was still whimpering and clinging to him whenever he tried to put the child down.

When Anthony had woken up Jack had headed downstairs; the boy didn't need to see the crime scene again, and Mrs. Collins and her unnerving skill with children of all ages was due very soon. By the time she had, the child was calmed and more than happy to go to the smiling lady and Jack had gone back upstairs with Phryne. He had been unable to shake the unsettled feeling permeating the small flat though; even Phryne was oddly subdued, though she tried to hide it, and she had not been on the scene in the beginning.

"Alright," she said, taking a final sweep of the room. When her eyes fell on him she smiled, and half-hearted though it was it was a welcome sight. "We'll see what Mac says. Until then, you can take me for either a very late lunch or a very early supper."

They exited the bedroom. Jack left orders with his constables to finish with the scene, check back with the few neighbours that had not been home during their first interviews, and wait for the coroner's van to arrive. Then he followed Phryne back downstairs; once outside they found Mrs. Collins still watching the boy. The sky had darkened considerably since they had gone in, and rain was imminent.

"Mitchell," Jack said, pointing out his young constable. "Telephone Welfare again, see where they've gotten to. Mrs. Collins, thank you for minding the child. I'm afraid we might need to rely on you a while longer."

"It's absolutely fine, inspector," she replied. "Anthony and I are having a lovely time, aren't we darling?"

The boy nodded solemnly, his dark curls bouncing as he did.

"Jack?" Phryne asked, touching his arm. "Could you perhaps take young Anthony for a walk while I speak with Dot?"

He realised that she wanted to fill Mrs. Collins in on the details of the investigation, and either astutely realised the child was old enough to understand bits and pieces, or just didn't want to deal with him. Possibly a combination of the two. Either way, he found himself walking the child to the corner and back while Phryne spoke with her friend.

While he walked he talked to the boy about the trees and the flowers and the motor cars that passed on the busier road ahead; it was preferable to the child's silent stares, at least. Anthony was only a little younger than Aggie Collins, but other than her Jack had spent very little time with children that age in recent years; there had been his brother's daughter Ivy, before the war, and Rosie's nieces and nephews, but they were all older now and he hadn't seen the latter in years. Aggie was a whirlwind of a child, verbally precocious and loud and perfectly charming, but she had not prepared him for the unnerving experience of a silent toddler. The only thing the boy said the entire journey was when Jack pointed out a lorikeet; Anthony had pulled himself upright to get a better view, straining out of Jack's arms.

"Keet! Keet! Where keet?"

"Just there, young man," Jack had replied, shifting him so he had a better view of the tree. He presumed the new angle helped, because Anthony nodded and fell silent once more. "Do you like birds?"

The boy was staring at the tree, watching the brightly coloured bird and seemingly oblivious to the question. When the bird eventually flew away he wilted again, and Jack could not nudge another word from him. When he got back to the building, Constable Mitchell was back.

"I spoke with Welfare, sir, and they say they have no one to come out for hours yet."

Jack sighed. They could have told him that the first time; he pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly.

"What about a neighbour?" Phryne asked. "You said that one of them watches him regularly?"

"Can't," Jack said. "Regulations forbid it. He'll have to go back to the station and wait."

"That's no place for a little one, inspector," Dot interjected. "He'll want something to eat soon enough, and a distraction."

"He needs to be in the care of a member of the constabulary."

To his surprise, it was Phryne that spoke up.

"If Mitchell were to drive Dot and the child back to Wardlow and stay with them until Welfare arrives, would that be acceptable? Ivy's watching Aggie and Theo there, and at least there's a bed and food and a place to contain him," she said, then cast a look at the sky. "And it will be out of the rain."

Jack considered it; it was not, strictly speaking, proper procedure. There were no rules against it though.

"Mrs. Collins?" he asked, turning to Dot.

"I'd be happy to do it, inspector."

He nodded to Mitchell.

"Please telephone Welfare, give them the new address," Jack told him. Phryne produced a card from her decolletage and poor Mitchell's eyes nearly bugged out his head; Jack tried not to chuckle. "Then escort Mrs. Collins back and wait with her until the child is collected."

"Yes, sir," said his constable.

"Now, Miss Fisher, I believe I owe you some lunch."

 

———

 

Returning to Wardlow that evening, Jack noticed one of the police motor cars still parked on the street. Phryne saw it a second after him.

"Mitchell can't still be waiting, surely?" she asked.

Jack groaned. Interviews at the restaurant where Helen had worked had taken most of the afternoon and had produced no real leads. By the time they were back at the station the shift was over; Jack had been in long enough to telephone Helen Fox's next of kin—Collins had tracked down an aunt in Ballarat—and leave a message with the woman's husband, then suggested to Phryne that they return home for the night. They weren't going to make any progress on a Saturday evening, and Mac's report hadn't come through yet.

"We may as well go see," Jack said, climbing out of the car.

Mr. Butler met them at the door, quietly informing them that Constable Mitchell was in the kitchen with a cup of tea.

"It's well past the end of his shift," Jack said, and Mr. Butler inclined his head.

"Yes, sir," he said. "But Welfare has yet to arrive; Dorothy put the child to sleep in the nursery before going home, because he was exhausted, but the constable felt he should stay."

Jack nodded. "Yes, he should have. Or contacted the station so a replacement from the evening shift could come out. Has he spoken with Welfare again at least?"

"I'm not certain, sir. I can ask him, if you'd like?"

"I'll speak with him," Phryne said, removing her hat and giving her hair a quick shake. "I need a cup of tea. Jack, why don't you telephone Welfare again, see where they've gotten to?"

Jack moved to take a seat by the telephone and asked the operator to put him through. Edgar Prentice answered at the other end; Jack had known him for years. Decent man, rather fond of passing responsibility on to other people but honest.

"Jack!" he exclaimed. "What can I do you for?"

"Well, we've been waiting over six hours for someone to come pick up the minor child of a murder victim," he said bluntly."If someone had said it would be this long I would have driven the boy over myself."

"Hold on, mate. The only police call we've had all day was handled hours ago."

"What do you mean that it was handled, Ed? The child's currently asleep in my house."

"It's right here. Custody passed to..." there was a rustle of papers. "Jack Robinson, 221B The Esplanade, St. Kilda? That can't be right..."

"Damn right it's not. That is, in case you have somehow forgotten after knowing me for over a decade, _my_ name and _my_ address, and I certainly did not take custody of a recently orphaned two year old."

Jack looked up to see Phryne watching him from the kitchen doorway, eyebrows raised. Jack covered the mouthpiece of the receiver with his hand.

"It looks like there was a mixup and 'pick up the child at this address' became 'child is in custody at this address' somewhere along the line," he said quietly.

Phryne rolled her eyes.

In his ear, Ed was coming up with any excuse he could to cover for the error.

"When can you get someone out?" Jack asked.

"A couple of hours. I'm sorry, Jack, but we're running at a deficit all around. We've got too many kids and not enough foster families, the homes are packed to the gills, and half my work force are out sick. And now that it's after hours... you're lucky you caught _me_ here, never mind anybody else."

"So when will you get here?" Jack asked.

"Look, you said he was asleep, right?"

"Oh, absolutely not, Ed."

Phryne's eyebrows rose even higher, clearly suspecting what Ed's suggestion had been, and Jack nodded.

"I can come out first thing tomorrow morning."

"Next of kin will be here first thing tomorrow. That doesn't help me now."

Phryne had come closer.

"Is that Ed?" she mouthed, holding out her hand when Jack nodded.

"Hold on, Ed, Phryne wants to speak with you."

"Edgar, darling," Phryne purred down the line, and Jack winced. Nothing good ever came out of that tone. "What's this about tomorrow morning?" There was a pause as Ed replied. "So what you're saying, just so this is clear, is that we can either be up until who knows when waiting for you to do your job this evening—waking the sleeping child in the process, which sounds like a delight—or you can be around first thing tomorrow morning?" Another pause. "And there's no other alternative? You're certain of this?" She flashed Jack a quick grin, clearly having Ed exactly where she wanted him. "And if we were to do this enormous—" she stretched the word out until it snapped. "—favour, I don't suppose you could convince that darling wife of yours to aid with the next Women's Hospital fundraiser? Someone with her skills would be exceptionally helpful."

Phryne's smile was victorious, and she motioned for Jack to hand over his notepad and pencil.

"Yes, Ed, I think you should give Enid a ring, see what you do. If you aren't here in the next hour we'll just assume it's all arranged, shall we? Yes, excellent. Lovely to speak with you too," she said, and ended the call.

"Really, Phryne?" Jack asked.

"Aunt P's been after Enid Prentice for that fundraiser for _weeks_ ," Phryne said with a shrug, scrawling a quick note on his pad and then ripping the paper out and setting it beside the telephone—it was the Prentice's home telephone number. "He'll sleep through the night and be gone before I get out of bed tomorrow morning. I'm not going to kick the child out to sleep at the police station, which would be the alternative outcome. Especially as I suspect that you'd be the one to take him in, and I have other plans for this evening."

Nearly three years together and he was still surprised by the depths of her desire for him.

"Is that so, Miss Fisher?" he asked, gently caressing her hand as he took his notepad back, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Oh, yes, I've just had the latest in lingerie sent over from the House of Fleuri," her voice was husky.

He smirked, one corner of his mouth raising.

"And let me guess?" Jack said. "It's positively lethal?"

"Well," she purred. It was a dangerous sound. "I'll let you be the judge of that."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to update this every other day, and technically in my time zone I have. (Just before bed instead of in the morning this time because real life is a nuisance.)

Phryne was woken up by a trail of kisses down her arm.

"Mmm, darling?" she said, shifting to give him better access. "What did I do to deserve this?"

"Oh, you know," he murmured, moving to her breast. "Just the usual."

"You never did tell me what you thought about the lingerie," she teased, gasping as his tongue flicked against her nipple in response.

He stopped, looking at where it had fallen on the floor the night before.

"I like it. It should stay there."

His wry smile sent a shiver through her, and he raised an eyebrow. It certainly didn't help matters.

"Don't you have work?" she asked.

"I do," he confirmed. "I was just taking a few minutes to appreciate the beautiful woman in my bed before getting out and facing it."

"About that..." she trailed off as he began to move downwards, his early morning stubble rough against her skin.

He chuckled at her low moan.

"Were you saying something, Phryne?"

She touched his cheek; it paused him in his movements, his eyes meeting hers. He was still slightly disturbed by the events of the day before, she could see it; she motioned him upwards so she could kiss him properly. He obliged, meeting her tongue with his, then pulled back reluctantly.

"I really do have work," he said. "I'll bring the boy in with me. Next of kin should be here this morning, if she caught the overnight train. I assume you'll be by this afternoon?"

Phryne nodded. "It's Sunday morning. Not even murder can get me out of bed before lunch."

"What about an invitation to join me in the shower?" he asked, his hand trailing up her leg to rest on her hip.

"Tempting," she replied, cocking her head as if considering the offer. "But not tempting enough. Now off with you; a woman needs her beauty sleep."

He kissed her again, far more thoroughly than was fair, and headed out to bathe. Phryne rolled over and tried to fall back asleep. It was no use—she was firmly awake and rather wishing she had joined him in the shower after all.

Half an hour later, having given up entirely, Phryne padded downstairs, tying her silk robe as she did. Jack probably hadn't left yet, and she had some serious words to have with him. Waking her up this early on a Sunday morning was not to be borne, especially if he was going to go harrying off after a murderer instead of taking care of the situation he had created. She could tolerate the ostensible monogamy (though it was an option, she'd not yet found a man diverting enough to entice her into bed), and the Mrs. Fisher-Robinson from most of the population of Melbourne, and the fact that she'd become surprisingly sentimental. But ruining her ability to sleep in? Some things were beyond the pale.

He was in the kitchen, where he always took his breakfast on mornings she didn't join him; the dear man still wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of staff, and eating in the kitchen was a compromise. Or possibly he just enjoyed the view of the garden better, which was the explanation he always gave.

She stopped at the doorway; Jack was sipping his tea, as usual, but instead of perusing the newspaper he was chatting with the boy—Anthony, she remembered after a moment—as he helped him eat his breakfast. Her heart clenched and she backed away from the door.

It was an unexpected glimpse into a life she had never wanted.

She had never given it a second thought, once she'd procured the termination the year before. Well, no, that wasn't completely true; it had crossed her mind from time to time, in the idle way that such thoughts did. She had never doubted it had been the right choice, and Jack had never hinted otherwise; had, in fact, been in complete agreement. And she believed him to be sincere.

But now he was sitting at their kitchen table with a child and a smile that seemed so natural on him, and she couldn't help but remember how very much he had given up to be with _her_. An unfortunately early Sunday wasn't all _that_ bad, in comparison. And the kissing had been delightful, even if he'd failed to follow through.

 

———

 

Jack took a bite of his toast, handing the second slice over to Anthony. The boy had been awake when he'd come downstairs, sitting upright in the bed and still eerily quiet. He'd come to Jack's extended arms without a fuss, allowing Jack to change his nappy—a skill Jack had assumed he'd forgotten years before—and bring him to the kitchen. Now he was eating but still nearly unresponsive; Jack began to talk, and Mr. Butler even paused in his duties to sit at the table for a few minutes, both men trying to draw him out. Twenty years of police interrogations had not prepared Jack for this particular experience, and he was just about to give up entirely when Mr. Butler produced a spoon from the pocket of his apron and promptly balanced it on his nose.

Anthony's giggle was quiet, but still a victory. The two men exchanged a look that could best be described as relieved—Jack had no doubt Mr. Butler was aware of every detail of the circumstances—and continued their attempts to engage the boy. He didn't talk very much, but he seemed to be listening and occasionally laughing. Mr. Butler resumed his weekly bread kneading, and Jack told Anthony the plan for the day—he would come in to the station with lots of policemen in uniforms and then a nice man would come to take him home.

"Mumma?" the boy asked, and Jack shook his head. It had been the wrong thing to say; he wasn't usually so involved in the victim's family, not when they were this young.

"No," he said. "Your mumma has had to go away. But Ed is very nice and will help you."

The boy began to whip his head back and forth, conveying the strength of his objections with the speed.

"No! Mumma! Mumma 'ome."

"Mumma's not at home," Jack said, feeling his jaw clench. There was no way he'd allow this case to go unsolved, not that it would do a damned thing for the poor boy. "Your mumma can't come home. I'm sorry."

He was saved from making matters worse by Mr. Butler producing more toast; the butler gave him a sympathetic smile before turning his attentions to Anthony.

"How does young sir like his toast?" he asked, waving a napkin with a dramatic flourish that temporarily distracted the child. "Butter? Jam? Kumquat marmalade?"

"'Lade!" the boy exclaimed, as if it were a luxury. "'Lade toas. Peese?"

"Marmalade toast it is," said Mr. Butler, selecting the correct jar and spreading a generous portion.

Anthony munched on the toast, hands and face becoming sticky, while Jack talked to him about anything to keep him mind off his mother. The boy continued to be mostly contemplative, but would occasionally nod or repeat a word as if agreeing with what Jack had said, or laugh, or answer a question. They were discussing balls (which was apparently of great interest to Anthony, who even mimed throwing one) when Phryne came into the kitchen, clearly irritable.

"Good morning, love," Jack said, trying not to laugh. Phryne was most adamantly not a morning person. "Not staying in bed?"

"I intended to," she said scathingly, slumping into the nearest chair. Mr. Butler managed to produce a hot cup of coffee and place it before her as she sat. "But _someone_ woke me up this morning."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I really didn't mean to. Usually you sleep like the—"

It was not an expression he should be using in front of the child, actually. Phryne winced and lifted to the cup of coffee to her mouth.

"It's fine," she said quietly. "Just, next time, only do it if you have the day off?"

"I think I can manage that," he said, offering the last slice of toast to her with a smile. She snatched the one off of his plate instead, and made a production of eating it.

"Mmm," she moaned. "Positively decadent."

Jack laughed, motioning her to lean across the table towards him and then giving her a gentle kiss. Her eyes were soft and affectionate and full of love as she looked at him; it stole his breath every time.

"You've got some jam, just here," he whispered, brushing the fleck from the corner of her mouth with his thumb.

"You are going to spoil me, Jack," she whispered back.

"Every time, Phryne love, and every way."

He sat back in his seat, and she grinned at him.

"Makes it difficult to stay mad," she admitted, taking another sip of her coffee.

"So, will you be coming into the station with me?" he asked. "Might be easier if one of us drives and the other keeps Anthony from climbing. Not that he's shown any inclination to so far."

He looked at the boy again. It wasn't right. He was too quiet, too compliant. Too scared, Jack assumed.

"When are you due in?" she asked.

Jack stole a look at the clock; there was only fifteen minutes before he would have to leave, which wasn't nearly enough time.

"Eight," he said. "So I suppose I'll just have to meet you there."

She groaned.

"It's not that disappointing," Jack said with a laugh. "You'll escape my reprimands about your driving, for starters."

"No, we told Ed that Anthony was _here_ , not the station. With the change of plans and keeping him overnight, I didn't even think..."

"So we telephone him," Jack said, half turning to the sticky faced child. Mr. Butler, bless him, produced a damp cloth as if on cue.

"Do you really have time to telephone, change his clothes—and yours, darling, there's a rather conspicuous chunk of marmalade on your shirtsleeve—and still leave on time?"

That seemed unlikely.

"The other option is?"

"If the paperwork has this as the address for foster custody and Ed is coming here in, what, forty five minutes or so?" she asked, glancing at the clock. "Mr. Butler?"

"I'm sure we could keep the child clean and safe that long, miss," the butler said without missing a beat.

It was the most reasonable course of action.

"I really couldn't ask that of you, Mr. Butler," Jack said.

"Nonsense, sir. I'm sure the young master would be amenable to helping me with the bread, so long as Miss Fisher would distract him while I'm moving things in and out of the oven?"

Phryne nodded, then rolled her eyes at Jack's doubtful gaze.

"I don't do children, Jack, but even I can manage that."

"Of course you can," he said. "I'm just surprised that you're offering."

"Well I can hardly let my police source get accused of dereliction of duty, can I?" she winked at him."Just think of how much trouble it would be to train up another one."

Snorting, Jack took the last sip of his tea and stood.

"Be at the station by nine," he said, rounding the table to give her a brief hug before heading upstairs to change. "Mac said she should have the autopsy report by then.”

 

———

 

After a scandalously short bath—an occasional necessity in their line of work and not something she could solely lay at the feet of the toddler in her kitchen—and a change of outfit, Phryne found herself back in the kitchen and regretting her offer. Anthony wasn't a _bad_ child, as far as children went; he was quiet and sat in the chair without complaint, but she was utterly perplexed about what she was supposed to _do_ with him. If it had been Aggie, Phryne would have been chasing her out of cupboards and shelves, but Anthony was too...compliant for that. There were glimmers of a personality on occasion—he giggled and tried to follow Mr. Butler's lead when it came to kneading a small hunk of dough—but he was mostly just...there.

"Miss," Mr. Butler said, giving her a small smile and motioning her towards the sink. "Perhaps a storybook would lift his spirits? I really must get the first batch of buns out without small fingers."

"Of course, Mr. B," she said. There were a selection of children's books in the nursery; they were rather insipid things, for the most part, but she could take five minutes out of her day to grit her teeth and read one. "Anthony?"

The boy looked up.

"Do you like storybooks?" she asked, trying to adopt the cutesy tone that Dot deployed on children of that age. It was no use; she could do sensual and light and flirty and stern, but cutesy was not in her range.

There was a slight...alertness to him at the question, though he didn't move. Phryne extended her hand in offer; he took it hesitantly after a moment, allowing her to remove him from the chair and begin to walk towards the nursery. Once there she motioned towards the bookshelf; he moved towards it without releasing her hand.

"Book?" he asked; his eyes were large and a very dark brown, and actually appearing curious. That was workable. Ed should be along soon enough.

"Of course. Any book on that shelf," replied Phryne, casting her eye around the room. "Then we can sit on that chair in the corner and read it together?"

Anthony released her hand to take the last few steps to the bookshelf and pulled one of the books from the shelf.

"Book!"

He moved back towards her, holding it up.

"Yes, it is. It's—" she forced a smile as she glanced at the title. " _Snugglepot and Cuddlepie_? Oh, good g—that sounds lovely!"

Well, that was what she got for allowing Dot to select the items for the nursery. She was going to have to reread _Erotica of the Far East_ just forget about this. She picked him up and carried him to the chair; he was surprisingly heavy, and even though he was now clean he still smelled vaguely of marmalade. She settled him into her lap so he could see the illustrations—she had a notion that they were aimed at the children and not the poor unwitting adult left reading it to them—and began the tale of the gumnut brothers. It was exactly as absurd as she expected; when Phryne reached the part about Mrs. Fantail being a gadabout who conned the boys into minding her eggs, she had to admit that she had a feeling of solidarity with the bird.

About halfway through Anthony seemed to relax slightly, nestling against her and his small hand reaching up to stroke the edge of her silk scarf. It was harmless, and almost (but not quite) endearing as he praised her reading skills.

"Goo'. Goo'. Goo' book," he repeated soothingly.

"Was it?" she asked, managing to sound almost enthusiastic as she finished. "Have you read that book before?"

"Goo' book."

"Did you like it?"

"Yeh. Goo' book."

The child was a stunning conversationalist. He was also...not sweet, but surprisingly warm in her lap. He might even be one of those children who didn't annoy her overly much when she met them, though it was hard to say under the current circumstances.

"Why don't we see if Mr. Butler is done with the buns?" she said cheerfully; anything to avoid reading another one of those books.

She stood, putting _Snugglepot and Cuddlepie_ back on the shelf (if there had been an open fire, she wasn't sure she could have resisted the urge to shove it into the flames) and taking Anthony's hand. The boy seemed slightly less...absent? than he had before the book, and she felt awful for him. Less than twenty four hours earlier he had been left in a room with the body of his murdered mother; she'd seen grown men catatonic at scenes like that, and while he understood less—a two year old was not intellectually capable of understanding death or violence—he was also utterly innocent and left without the only parent he knew. She picked him up, and when he leaned against her she gave him a tender kiss on his cheek.

"Come along, Anthony. Mr. Prentice should be here soon."

 

———

 

Back in the kitchen, Phryne stole a look at the clock. Ed was late; it wasn't surprising, really, but she had a murder to investigate and it _was_ damned inconvenient. She sighed. Anthony was back in the kitchen chair and watching Mr. Butler, who had moved on to shelling peas. Bert and Cec had come around as well, ostensibly to see if Miss Fisher had any requests but really to secure some freshly baked buns.

"Mr. B," Phryne said. "I'm just going to telephone Welfare and see what ridiculous excuse Ed has this time."

"Master Anthony and I will remain here, won't we?" replied Mr. Butler, winking at the boy.

Anthony giggled, and even continued smiling when he was done.

"Excellent!" she said airily. "Right back, then."

She had just reached the telephone when the doorbell rang. _Finally_ , thought Phryne, rolling her eyes. Enid Prentice was an organisational marvel, but she probably developed the skill wrangling her blasted husband. Still, he was there now and she would have time to meet Jack by nine.

She opened the door, expecting to find a tiny man with a pencil thin mustache and a tacky suit. Instead it was a large woman; she was tall and broad and just… _large_. Phryne could think of no other word to describe how the woman took up so much space. Her grey-streaked hair was tucked into a neat bun beneath a large straw hat and her floral print dress was faded but well-kept; it gave the clear impression of a country woman come to the city in her sartorial best.

"Hullo," said the woman, her accent broad. "I'm Connie Wilkes. I'm here to collect Anthony."

Recognising the name as that of the child's aunt, Phryne stepped aside to let her in and motioned to the parlour. The woman entered, taking a seat in an armchair.

"He's just in the kitchen," Phryne said, standing in the doorway. "I'll fetch—Oh! Mr. Butler, you are a wonder."

Her butler had emerged from the kitchen with the boy. Phryne met them halfway and took Anthony's hand, leading him to the parlour while Mr. Butler no doubt set off to make tea for the guest. Phryne's eyes drifted towards the clock on the mantelpiece as she entered the room—she could just manage a quick cup before sending them off and getting to the station—and didn't immediately notice the boy stiffen.

There was no ignoring his sudden wail and frantic attempt to climb up Phryne's leg.

"Nonononononono!" he cried, grasping at Phryne's blouse for leverage.

Phryne looked towards the aunt. She remembered Dot talking about Aggie's seemingly random acceptance or rejection of strangers and how violent the reaction could be, and she meant to flash the woman a vaguely amused smile. Connie Wilkes was watching, and for a split second there was a _look_ in her eyes. Pure, hard possession. Phryne picked the boy up without realising she would, holding him close.

"I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?" Phryne said, only a few steps through the door. Anthony had buried his face against her and was continuing to wail.

"Connie Wilkes," the woman said. The look in her eyes was gone, replaced by a cool though perfectly acceptable smile, but Phryne couldn't shake the memory. "Helen was my sister's girl; we took her in when she was nine."

"It must have been a shock. Did Ed give you the address?"

"Ed?"

"Edgar Prentice. From Welfare?"

"Oh, yes," the woman said, fidgeting with her handbag. "Yes, Mr. Prentice was very understanding. We just want to take little Anthony home. Such unpleasant business."

"And catch your niece's killer, I presume?" Phryne said, shifting the boy to her hip. Every detective instinct she had was screaming that there was something else going on.

"Of course," the woman smiled. "But I think that's best left to the police. My job will be caring for this little darling."

She stood as if to take him, and even though she was halfway across the room Phryne flinched and turned away. She recovered quickly, pretending she was looking through the door for Mr. Butler.

"Tea?" she asked, smiling. She needed to stall for time until she could figure out what was going on. "I think my butler will be hideously offended if we don't try some of his lavender shortbreads."

"Oh, I couldn't impose."

"I insist," Phryne said.

"No, no. You've already been so kind to take care of Anthony while I came in from Ballarat."

Mr. Butler came through as if on cue, and Phryne gave him a deliberate look as he placed the tray of tea things and biscuits on the table.

"Thank you," she said.

"Shall I stay close in case you need anything else?" he asked—thank heavens the man was a mind reader—and Phryne nodded.

"Yes, please. In fact, could you bring Anthony and retrieve his jumper? I believe it was left in the kitchen."

She needed Anthony out of the room if she was going to make any progress. Thankfully the child went to Mr. Butler without too much fuss, and Phryne attempted to clean her shoulder of the boy's tears. There was nothing for it; she'd have to change. It was rather repulsive, but she'd done worse for a case and smiled as if it didn't bother her.

"Little ones," she said, taking a seat across from Connie Wilkes and pouring out the tea. "They are so funny with people at that age, aren't they?"

Except he hadn't had that reaction to anybody else; he'd complacently gone off with Jack and Dot and Mr. Butler and herself, he'd accepted the stream of police officers and Bert and Cec. Still, perhaps it was something as simple as the woman's hat that had set him off.

Phryne made small talk for several minutes, and Mrs. Wilkes grew increasingly uncomfortable.

"Where has that man gotten to with my Anthony?" she asked, straining as she looked towards the door again.

"I'm sure the jumper has just been misplaced," soothed Phryne. "Have you spoken with the police yet?"

The woman jumped. It was a guilty action, and Phryne grew even more suspicious.

"What? Why would I speak with them?"

"Well, they would need to speak with you. See if you have any information that could help us—"

"Us?"

"Them. I misspoke," Phryne said, feeling that identifying herself as a private investigator would be a hindrance to her inquiry. "Any information that could help the police identify Helen's killer."

"Don't know why I would," the woman grumbled. "She headed off to Melbourne and never so much as wrote."

"That sounds difficult," replied Phryne. It made the displayed possessiveness even odder. "It can be very difficult to take in girls of that age. Several years ago I took in one, and now I rarely see her."

Jane would forgive her the little lie. Thankfully she was spending the weekend away with a friend's family and wasn't due back until dinnertime.

"Ungrateful is what she was. But I loved her anyway."

"Of course, of course. But the police will need to speak with you; the tiniest detail might be of use."

The conversation was interrupted by the ringing telephone and Mr. Butler answering it.

"Telephone for you, miss," he said from the parlour doorway, then turned to Mrs. Wilkes. "I'm afraid young Anthony has been sidetracked by a drink and biscuits, but will rejoin you shortly."

The woman smiled a false smile, and Phryne was glad the child wasn't in the room. She was missing something _obvious_ , she knew it. She stood and headed into the hall.

"Phryne Fisher-Robinson," she said, knowing Mr. Butler would have said if the person on the line was Jack or someone else close enough that the obfuscation was unneeded.

It was still a rather odd way to introduce herself, but it also didn't bother her nearly as much as she had expected. It had solved their co-habiting dilemma rather nicely, and it was only a tiny white lie; they were as good as married, at least, without any of the unpleasant rules and restrictions. Aunt P had thrown a fit, but you couldn't have _everything_.

"Ahh, Phryne!" It was Ed Prentice. "I'm so sorry to be running late, but there was a fire at one of the homes early this morning and it's taken hours to make any headway at all."

She dropped her voice, hoping not to be overheard. Perhaps Ed knew more about the odd Mrs. Wilkes.

"There's no need to worry, Ed." she said. "Anthony's aunt has arrived to collect him."

"His aunt?"

"Yes. Connie Wilkes? She said you gave her the address."

"Phryne," Ed said slowly. "I haven't spoken to a Connie Wilkes. I haven't spoken to _anyone_ about this case, actually. I've been dealing with the fire brigade and a dozen displaced children since 3 am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Snugglepot and Cuddlepie](http://www.musingsbylizzytish.com/cn/snugglepot-and-cuddlepie.html) is a real series of stories. I have heard that they are an Australian classic.


	3. Chapter 3

Finishing her conversation with Ed, Phryne finally had an inkling of what was wrong and how to approach it. She looked up to find Mr. Butler hovering; no doubt he suspected that there was something amiss. The man was positively prescient at times.

"Are Cec and Bert still here?" she asked as quietly as possible.

"Yes, miss."

"Good. In a moment I'll need you to send them into the parlour with Anthony, and they'll drive us to the station."

"Of course, miss. Shall I tell Mr. Johnson to play along?"

Bert would definitely be the weak link in the plan.

"Your forethought never ceases to amaze me. Please do," Phryne said, smoothing her bob and attempting once more to clean the worst evidence of Anthony's snivels from her shirt. It was no use. Thank heavens Dot had plenty of experience in that particular damage. "Right. Wish me luck, Mr. Butler."

"You don't need luck, miss, when you have skill."

"Oh, I'll definitely need luck. I'm not entirely sure _my_ theatrical skills are up for this one."

Mr. Butler inclined his head and retreated back to the kitchen. Phryne pasted on her biggest smile and returned to the parlour.

"Mrs. Wilkes!" she said, trying to sound jovial. "That was the police officer handling Helen's murder. I've told him about your arrival, which he is very relieved about. Anthony's such a charming child, he had all the investigators worried. Inspector Robinson thought that it might be best if I were to accompany you to the station."

"Oh no, I couldn't—"

“Nonsense! I can mind him while you give your statement, then we can handle all the paperwork to transfer custody to you. If we head off now I'm sure you can be on a train back home by dinnertime!"

Her cheeks were already aching from the falseness of her smile, but it gave Connie Wilkes no room to argue.

"Yes, yes. I suppose that is the easiest solution."

"Oh, absolutely! And it will give me a little longer with Anthony!" Phryne exclaimed. "He's just such a darling little boy, and I haven't any of my own."

"No children?"

"Well, we have the girl we took in. But that hardly counts," Phryne said brightly, and vowed to buy Jane half a bookstore in recompense. "Not at all like a child of blood. My husband and I were never blessed. But _Anthony_ … oh, he's just so sweet. I can hardly bear to part with him; if he wasn't going to family I'm not certain I could."

Good heavens above, this was exhausting. If Cec and Bert didn't come soon... Thankfully they did, Cec carrying the child, and part two of the plan could be set into motion.

"Mrs. Wilkes, this is Mr. Yates and Mr. Johnson."

The two red raggers tipped their hats and muttered hellos. Mrs. Wilkes returned the greeting stiffly, her attention more focused on the toddler in Cec's arms.

"These two gentleman will drive us to the police station," Phryne said, reaching out to take Anthony. He was trembling but no longer crying, which was an improvement; he was rather limpet-like as he clung to her though, and she shifted him to a more secure position. Next time Jack called her out to a crime scene she was going to take a long, hot bath instead. "Right, shall we go?"

 

———

 

The ride was quiet. Phryne forced herself to smile at every sniffle and shifting of the toddler in her lap, determined to sell her role as a doting, maternal woman. It might be nothing; Anthony's aunt might just be a slightly unpleasant person and Phryne's intuition skewed by the presence of a child. But growing up in Collingwood had honed Phryne's instincts razor sharp and Connie Wilkes left all of them on alert. Bert caught her eye during one of her gushing moments, and Phryne tried not to laugh at his look of consternation.

"You sure do like the little ones," he grumbled.

The man would not be terribly useful undercover, Phryne decided, but rose to the comment with an enthused response. It was the thought that counted, after all.

"Oh, look Anthony! We've arrived at the police station! Shall we go see Inspector Robinson again?" Phryne asked, waving towards the station, then turned to Mrs. Wilkes. "He was so fond of the inspector yesterday. So very sweet to see a man fond of children."

Though she would have been happy to see Jack a little _less_ enthused. Still, it would cover for any familiarity Jack displayed before she could tip him off, and it wasn't untrue. She led the way into the station; Jack came out of the office when he heard her, and she caught his eye. The last thing they needed was for him to contradict her and warn Mrs. Wilkes.

"Inspector Robinson! It's so nice to see you again; I've brought Anthony's aunt in like we discussed."

"Ahh, yes, thank you," he said; only someone who knew him very well would have caught the moment of hesitation. He regained his composure and smiled. "Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Wilkes. I'll just need to ask you some questions about Helen's life. Constable Mitchell, if you could bring her through to the interview room?"

The woman glanced at Anthony before moving through the gate to follow Mitchell. When she was out of sight, Jack's reserve broke. Phryne put Anthony down, relieved not to be carrying him any longer, and told him not to wander.

"What's going on?" Jack asked, leaning against the desk with teacup in hand.

"There's something...off about this whole thing," she said quietly. "Mrs. Wilkes came to collect Anthony from our place, and I cannot figure out where she got the address. And he was completely inconsolable when he saw her."

"It was probably Ed—"

"No, she said it was but he wasn't in the office."

"Then it was someone else at Welfare."

It was the logical explanation, but it didn’t sit right with her.

"What about his reaction?" she countered.

"Kids are odd. One of Rosie's nieces wouldn't accept her own father when he shaved off his beard. Took her six weeks before she'd talk to him."

"Jack, I'm serious. There's something I can't put my finger on."

He nodded. "Alright, Miss Fisher. If there's one thing I've learnt during our acquaintance, it's that your intuition is almost always right."

"Almost?" she asked archly.

His knowing smile was all her playful Jack.

"I seem to recall an incident with a—"

"Fair enough!" she laughed. "But in this matter, trust me darling."

"Darling?" he asked, and he actually reached out to touch her arm. "You really are unsettled by this, aren't you?"

"Enough that I faked an absolutely dire affection for the poor boy," she said, giving him a small smile."It will pass soon enough."

"Are you coming in for the interview?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to tip her off that I'm a private detective. And someone has to watch him; Constable Mitchell needs the experience _and_ earned it by staying last night, so I won't interfere there. I don't see any other obvious minders; you really do need a budget for more men. I'll take him through to the office and hope you're quick."

"Alright," Jack nodded, then leaned across to give her a quick kiss on her cheek. "Thank you for this, love."

"Thank me later," she purred, and smirked at his eyeroll. She was worried, not dead. "You still owe me for this morning."

 

———

 

Jack wasn't certain he would have picked up the early, subtle clues if it hadn't been for Phryne's warning. He liked to think he would—he was a good police officer, despite his occasional foray into humourous self-deprecation—but the first signs were so subtle they could have been easily dismissed. He had been warned though, and so he took the interview slow, lowering Mrs. Wilkes's defenses, placating her with tea and biscuits, drawing her out, circling back around to check for inconsistencies. It took almost three hours before Mrs. Wilkes seemed to realise that it was not a routine taking of a statement—the dumb criminals who thought themselves clever were always a pleasant surprise—and by then she had given up too many small details to create a lie out of whole cloth. It was, he thought with pride, one of his most successful interrogations and was glad that Constable Mitchell was quietly taking it in without interference.

It took another hour, Jack picking away at every tiny detail with a steady calm that flustered her more and more, to make Connie Wilkes crack. Crack she did though, spilling out the whole lurid story.

Helen had gone to live with them after the death of her parents. She had then proceeded to spend the next eight years attempting to run away from the so-called discipline and attentions of her lecherous uncle; the denial of Mrs. Wilkes about the abuse made it hard to say how far the latter had gone, but considering Jack had spoken with the registrar and discovered Helen Fox had never been married and gave birth seven months after her last, successful attempt to flee, he had his suspicions.

Connie Wilkes had clearly had the same suspicions, as she had finally managed to track Helen down. She had shown up at her door that Friday night, demanding care of Anthony be given to her immediately.

"He is my blood," she hissed, eyes unapologetic. "He deserves better than that shameless harlot for a mother."

"And how did she react to these demands?" Jack asked.

"That _bitch_ told me to get out of her home," she spat. " _Her home_ , like she'd even be alive without us taking her in."

"And Anthony?"

"He saw it. She turned him against me, saying those awful things. But it's fine; I have him now."

Behind him, Constable Mitchell exhaled sharply. The pure hatred on the woman's face was disturbing, even to Jack; the boy was nothing more than a piece of property. If that was what Phryne had seen, no wonder she had been so unnerved. Jack motioned to Mitchell to remove the tea things; he sat across from Connie Wilkes while his constable left the room and returned, not speaking but merely toying with his pen while he watched her.

When Mitchell was back in the room, Jack placed the pen on the table—in the silence of the room it could be heard hitting the wood—and said, quietly, "What did you do to Helen Fox yesterday morning?"

She confessed, so convinced that she was in the right that she held nothing back. She had gone back early Saturday morning, pushing through the door and demanding Anthony once more. Helen had refused, and when Mrs. Wilkes had tried to go past and retrieve the boy from the cot Helen had fought her. Connie _laughed_ as she showed Jack the bruise on her upper arm, calling it her war wound; standing behind her, Mitchell looked as if he would be ill. Jack couldn't blame the man.

"That wasn't enough to stop me," Connie Wilkes said, pride making her blue eyes glitter. "But she just kept coming until I hit her back. And I'm bigger and stronger, just like I always was."

"And you killed her."

The woman shrugged insolently. "She died. Can't say it was a big loss."

Everyone they had spoken to the day before had spoken warmly of Helen; nobody deserved to die like that, but there was something particularly unfair about this case. To have escaped abuse, managing to survive and raise a child everyone close to her adored? It was an enormous loss.

Jack asked a few more questions to tie up loose ends—yes, her husband did know she was in Melbourne and what she had done. Jack would have to make a telephone call to arrange his arrest; she had watched them remove Anthony from the scene the day before and bring him to Wardlow, and growing nervous she had taken a chance to retrieve him; the whole thing had been surprisingly quick and quiet, and she wasn't the least surprised that the neighbours hadn't heard—then motioned for Mitchell to handcuff her and bring her down to the cells.

"Why did you leave the child?" he asked as she was almost through the door. It wouldn't make a difference in the case, but he'd dreamed of the scene, of the clumps of hair still in the boy’s fists pulled out in his distress.

"If I'd taken him, you would have looked. This way I get him, all nice and legal like."

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

"Get her out of my sight, constable."

 

———

 

Exhausted, Jack sat in the interview room with his head in his hands. What a waste. After several minutes he stood up, cataloguing all the things he would need to do. Telephone Welfare again. Type up the statement. Get it signed. Stage perhaps the only sort of rescue Phryne would ever appreciate. Check in with Mitchell—he'd only been with City South for a week, and it was his first posting; not the sort of case that was pleasant to cut your teeth on, but he had handled himself admirably. Try to finish up before dinner; Jane would be back from her weekend away and his niece Ivy was coming as well. He sighed as he opened the door to his office, then froze.

Phryne was in his chair, feet propped on his desk, eyes closed, Anthony fast asleep on her chest. The boy was too big for it to look remotely comfortable, but as that was the least unexpected aspect the of tableau he filed it away to contemplate later. Just the sight of her was enough to lift some of his exhaustion.

"Jack, darling, if you speak loud enough to wake him I will not be held responsible for your death," she whispered, eyes still closed but a smirk ghosting across her lips.

He came closer and smoothed her hair, desperate to touch her but not interested in testing the veracity of her threat.

"I got a confession," he said, and she must have heard the weight of it in his voice because her free hand caught his and brought it to her lips to brush kisses across his knuckles.

"Three hours?"

"Four."

Her eyes shot open. "I only closed my eyes a minute—"

"Four hours. Believe me, I can feel every one of them."

She moved, shifting the boy beside her so she could stand. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face against his neck; he held her, feeling her strength fortify his, though it would look to an outsider as if he were comforting her. After a minute she stepped back, giving him a final sad smile before resuming her professional demeanour; they didn't often allow their romantic entanglement to cross the threshold of the station.

"Drink?"

"I'm still on duty."

"Well," she said wryly, grabbing his decanter from the side and pouring herself a measure. "I've earned one. The first hour was almost pleasant, but it went downhill from there rather quickly..."

Jack looked towards the toddler, now sprawled face down on the seat of his chair, legs dangling over the side and still fast asleep. Well, that explained how he'd slept through the murder. Deciding against waking him to reclaim his chair, Jack leaned against his desk. Phryne reclined in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk; whiskey tumbler in hand, some sort of toddler-induced mess on her shoulder, and a look ironic bemusement on her face.

"So..." she drawled out. "Care to tell me how the infamous Phryne Fisher still managed to solve your case while doing her best to pass as the very definition of maternal perfection?"

"I imagine being Phryne Fisher played a rather large role in it," he said dryly, and she raised her glass in a toast.

"Touché, inspector."

He brought her up to speed on the events; her lips tightened when he got to the motive, as he knew they would. She was—for understandable reasons—not particularly fond of people asserting ownership over others, and in that matter children were people first.

"That poor woman," Phryne said, shaking her head. "She escaped, carved out a life for herself, and her family still took it away from her."

"Yes," agreed Jack. "And if it hadn't been for you, we may very well have sent her son to the same fate."

He spared a glance for Anthony, still asleep with his lips pursed and a flush to his cheeks, before smiling at her. She was not, as she said, the model of maternal perfection; she had impeccable instincts and the deepest heart he'd ever known though, and he loved her for it.

"You did most of the work," she replied, eyeing him tenderly. "You look exhausted."

"I am."

"Do you want me to telephone Mr. Butler, tell him to cancel dinner and just make something less...?" she waved her empty hand to encapsulate the idea. "Ivy won't mind coming next Sunday instead."

"No. No use retreating; if I finish up here and leave as soon as my shift is done, I can manage a nap before the meal is served."

She drained the last of her drink, placing the glass on the desk, and smiled up at him.

"How can I help?"

It was mostly paperwork. There was one loose end though.

"I almost hate to ask—"

"Oh no," she said, following his eyes to the sleeping boy. "He cried for his mother for an hour straight earlier, before he finally fell asleep. And I was understanding enough, given the circumstances, but I am not continuing to mind him. There are _limits_ , Jack."

"It's a ten minute drive to the Welfare offices. That's all I'd be asking; drop him off to Ed and save me waiting. You've already done more than enough, Phryne, and I'm grateful. No is a perfectly acceptable answer."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, standing. "Ask me nicely."

It was a game she was fond of; he would ask, she would pretend to be reluctant, he'd ask again, she'd demurely capitulate—it had unsettled him the first time, until he learnt the rules—and then return the request at a later time. They had become very good at identifying the boundaries, and if he refused now she would still do as he asked. He stepped closer, close enough to see every eyelash framing her sultry eyes.

"Will you please take Anthony to the Welfare offices?" he asked again.

"Well," she breathed, the warmth caressing his face. "If you're going to ask me like that, I suppose I could."

"A noble sacrifice on your part, Miss Fisher."

"My intentions are most definitely not noble, darling. So get your work done and come home soon."

She trailed one finger down the length of his tie, hooking a finger beneath the top of his vest and pulling him closer, then grinned wickedly and darted away. She picked Anthony off of the chair—the child made a low grumble and began to wake up—and waved cheerfully as she left his office.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, a slightly early update because I am out a good chunk of tomorrow.

Outside the station and with toddler in arms, Phryne remembered that she had, in fact, been dropped off by Bert and Cec and therefore had no vehicle to drive. She briefly contemplated just returning to Jack's office and washing her hands of the whole affair, but the truth was that she wanted it over. It had been one of those cases that was emotionally exhausting despite its quick resolution—the severity of the assault, the child left for hours with his mother's body, the knowledge that she would have happily sent the child off with his aunt if her intuition hadn't objected, a long interrogation, and a particularly personal motive had left both her and Jack out of sorts—and it really was best to just conclude the whole matter once and for all. So she took the tram instead, thankful she had at least thought to bring a purse.

Still half asleep and cuddled into her shoulder—the child was deceptively _heavy_ —Anthony was at least pleased enough to applaud the tram's appearance and wave goodbye as they disembarked at the other end, even if he stayed nestled against her and glowered at strangers. Stranger strangers, really—they were hardly old friends themselves.

The Welfare offices were housed in a small red brick building tucked on a quiet side street; Phryne doubted she would have found them if she hadn't already known where they were. She went inside, heading up to Ed's office. With any luck he would be in and she could drop Anthony off and leave, rather than trying to bring someone else up to date. Having grown too heavy to carry, Anthony walked beside her, tiny fist wrapped around her fingers; he was still nearly silent. His hour-long tantrum over wanting his mother had been almost welcome in comparison to his long moments of unnerving complacency. Phryne did not spend a great deal of time with children, but even casting her mind back to her childhood and Collingwood she couldn’t remember a child so… absent. Quiet. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was unsettling.

'E. Prentice' was painted on the window of one of the offices, and Phryne knocked on the door.

"Come in," Ed called, and she went inside.

An enormous desk teeming with files and stacks of paper almost dwarfed the small man, who looked up in surprise.

"Miss Fisher! I mean, Mrs. Robinson?"

"Fisher-Robinson, Ed. I know these are the Antipodes and it's so hideously modern, but do keep up," she said, smiling to make it clear her chastisement was nothing of the sort. She'd known Ed Prentice for years, through his wife's charity work and Jane's guardianship, but he did not have a head for names, and didn't move in the sort of society circles where hyphenation was heard of. "Did Jack telephone?"

"He did. I take it this is the child in question?"

"No, I just thought I'd bring this one in as an example," she said dryly, placing Anthony in one of the visitor's chairs before taking a seat in the other. "This is our victim's son. Do I need to sign anything?"

Ed nodded and began digging through the mass of papers.

"I'm not sure where we're going to put him," Ed said. "When you said his aunt had arrived to collect him we gave his spot to another child."

Phryne remained silent. Where they put the boy was not her business and not of particular interest.

"Honestly, we're already so short—ahh, there...no, wrong one—on foster homes, and these group homes are a whole new set of problems. We've had to find places for a dozen children after one of the girls lit the place on fire..." Ed sighed, slumping backwards in his chair and rubbing his chin. "I can't find the blasted paperwork."

"I'll wait," Phryne said flatly.

Anthony spied a low table of books and toys in the corner, and he slid from the chair and headed towards it. Ed watched his silent movements, then turned to Phryne.

"Has he spoken at all?"

"He has," Phryne said. "It seems to come in fits and spurts."

Ed nodded, then stood and moved towards the boy. He knelt down on his level; Phryne knew that Ed was chronically late and overly fond of paperwork, but he had gone for this job because cared about the children.

"Hello, Anthony. My name is Mr. Prentice."

The boy froze, then turned very slowly to look at Ed. He shied away from the outstretched hand, rounding the table. Phryne had leaned forward to intervene before realising, clearly still on edge after the incident with his aunt, then huffed a small laugh and sat back in her seat.

"Alright, Anthony," said Ed gently. "I'm going to sit down. Maybe you can join us when you're ready?"

Anthony looked away, picking up one of the small wooden cars and driving it along the table. Ed stood up and returned to the desk, giving Phryne a strained smile.

"You said he was talking?" he asked, pulling out a particular file and running his finger down the paper as if searching for something.

"A little," Phryne replied, sparing a glance to make sure he was too distracted to overhear her. "Mostly to ask about his... well, you can imagine. And when he saw his aunt he was distressed; he witnessed the argument, though thankfully not the rest. But other times he's off in his own world."

After a minute Ed sighed, shutting the file. "I haven't got anywhere to put him. Not with his needs."

"There's not a thing wrong with him, aside from the fear."

"Yes. And I could probably cram him into a home where the children are already sleeping doubled up in a bed with a filthy mattress, or in one of those group homes—"

"The group homes where arson is the name of the game?" Phryne asked indignantly. Those places were—in theory—an improvement over the patched together system of private groups, but in _theory_ was the operative term on that front.

"We don't _have_ anywhere else."

Phryne jumped when she felt a small hand on her knee; she glanced down and found Anthony looking up at her with a book in his hand. Oh, bugger this for a lark. It would only be a day or two until they tracked down a family member.

"What if we take him?" she asked.

 

———

 

At half past four, Jack entered Wardlow with the intention of grabbing a quick nap before dinner. He glanced into the parlour and didn't see Phryne; he had hoped she was home so he could make sure relinquishing Anthony had gone smoothly. He'd start trying to track down the appropriate next of kin in the morning; there was a second aunt at the very least, though Connie Wilkes refused to provide an address. Mr. Butler came out from the kitchen, drying a glass as he did.

"Hello, inspector."

"Ahh, good evening Mr. Butler. Is Miss Fisher home yet?"

"I believe she's in the nursery."

What possible reason could she have for being in the nursery? Jack quickly hung up his hat and coat and headed towards it, accepting a tumbler of whiskey Mr. Butler appeared to have conjured from nowhere as he passed the other man. He moved down the corridor and paused in the doorway; Phryne was sitting on the floor, facing Anthony. The boy had a toy dog in his lap—there'd been one in his cot, Jack remembered, and suspected that Phryne had noticed it as well—and was carefully stacking blocks into a tower before knocking it over. Phryne, bless her heart, looked bored out of her mind.

"Whatever is going on?" Jack asked after a moment, startling Phryne.

"Ah, small issue with the Welfare plan," she said with a bright smile, a little too effervescent even for her.

"What sort of small issue?" Jack asked, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"I might have, possibly, maybe..." she exhaled, then hurriedly explained,"agreed to take Anthony in until we contacted his family."

" _Why_?"

"It was better than the alternative," she shrugged, moving to stand. She'd clearly been on the floor for some time because she winced as she moved, and Jack crossed the floor to help her up; she flashed him a grateful smile, then scowled at the wooden flooring. "On very rare occasions, Jack darling, I feel my age."

She was baiting him, he knew that.

"Does that mean _my_ old bones might get a rest one of these days?" he teased, pulling her in for a kiss in greeting.

"Mmm," she hummed against his lips, eyes closed. "I wouldn't put money on it."

He laughed, and she opened her eyes and slipped a hand beneath his suit jacket.

"I do love your laugh, Jack," she said, smiling fondly at him. "Are you heading upstairs?"

"I _was_ ," replied Jack. "But as some wicked woman has decided to adopt a two-year-old without telling me—"

"I did not _adopt_ him. I merely...brought him home in a temporary capacity."

"As some wicked woman brought home a two-year-old—in a temporary capacity, as you say—I have a distinct feeling that my afternoon will entail less napping and more wrangling than anticipated."

"Nonsense. Ivy will be here soon and is very much looking forward to spending time with the little blighter. She'll completely understand that a man as terribly old as you—forty next week, you're practically Methuselah!—needs his rest where he can take it."

"The cheek on you, Phryne Fisher," he grumbled good-naturedly. "But as I am rather like a fine wine—"

"Better than that vintage from Maiden Creek," she agreed.

"As I am rather like a fine wine, I certainly don't regret my age,” he tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, trying not to smile. “Unlike some vixens in my acquaintance."

Phryne laughed, then froze.

"What?" asked Jack.

"Jack, darling, I don't want you to worry..."

"What?"

"It's really not serious."

" _What_?"

She moved closer, pressing her entire body against him now, and raised her hand.

"I've just noticed that you have a smattering of grey hairs..." she brushed against the hair at his temple, then leaned up to kiss the place. "...just there."

"It's remarkable how they only appeared after I met you," he replied dryly.

"Coincidence, darling. That's all it is. Now go take a nap," she said, moving away, and he nodded in agreement.

Taking a quick glance at Anthony, still lost in his block building game, he wondered if there would ever be a time when he wasn't left utterly speechless by the depths of Phryne Fisher's heart. It didn't seem likely.

 

———

 

Unable to switch off his mind enough to sleep, Jack lay in bed, reading a book. There was a quiet knock at the door, then Phryne slipped inside.

"Ivy's just arrived," she said, heading towards the vanity to remove her earrings. "She's watching Anthony while I get dressed for dinner."

Jack set aside his book to watch her, smiling slightly. While he was exceptionally fond of her seductive techniques for the removal of clothing—he had eyes and a pulse, after all—there was also something welcome in the familiarity of simply watching her change.

"What possessed you to take him in, love?"

"A temporary loss of reason," she laughed, removing her blouse and laying it on the back of a chair.

"You never lose reason," replied Jack, looking at her firmly. There would be more to it despite her frivolous tone. "You're far too levelheaded to let a bit of sentiment take precedence over your general dislike."

"I don't dislike—well, I do dislike _some_ children, because they are selfish little things, but it's more of a general disinterest," she said, slipping off her skirt and camiknickers before padding over to lie beside him on the bed. "They're messy and loud and completely nonsensical, even the ones that are family, and the whole thing is just so utterly unappealing and contrary to how I like to live my life."

She slipped her hand beneath his shirt, curling her fingers to catch the edge of the placket over his chest.

"All of which I already knew and gets me no closer to understanding how we ended up with one of those messy, loud and nonsensical beings in your house."

She huffed irritably, sitting up to face him.

"Must you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Call it my house."

"But it is."

"It's _our_ house, Jack."

It was a niggling bone of contention that they often joked around, not quite seeing a compromise. She insisted that he should treat her assets as his, and he had no intention of doing so. She was convinced, despite his assurances otherwise, that it was a matter of pride, and that he would not behave in such a way if he had been the one to bring in the larger portion of the money or if their arrangement was legally recognised. Jack simply had no need for it and no desire to lay claim to anything of hers; Phryne had already made the vast majority of the sacrifices in their arrangement, in order to keep his good standing in the police force, and he had no intention of asking for more.

"I'm sorry..."

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it.

"Never mind," she replied, lacing her fingers through his.

"There's still a messy nonsensical thing downstairs..."

"But you'll notice he's not loud," Phryne smiled.

"No. No, he's rather..."

He trailed off, not quite certain what to say.

"He's scared, Jack. His entire world's just been upended and he was nearly sent off with his mother's killer. Not that he knew that, but..." she sighed and gave him a pained, crooked smile. "It was an awful life waiting for him, we both know that. And then Ed pointed out that there wasn't a place where he'd be safe, not with Welfare being stretched so far beyond its limits. I was sitting in that office and I just felt..."

She paused and shrugged, tucking her hair behind her ear to keep it from falling in her face. "Helen Fox died trying to keep him out of that situation, and now he was going to end up somewhere even worse. It wasn't fair. But we had a warm bed and food, and Mr. B thought it was a good idea—I telephoned because I knew some of it would fall on him, but you've seen how he is with Dot's two and he was rather approving of the whole thing. Dot's working all week as well, and Ivy loves children; she might even accept payment for minding him when she won't take it for anything else. You Robinsons have too much pride for your own good. And you're off the next couple of days, so it would be nearly five against one and even _I_ can handle those odds," she took a deep breath, lying back down to rest her cheek against his chest. "And I really didn't think you would mind, not for a few days. You don't, do you?"

She sounded almost uncertain. A truly uncertain Phryne was awful—he could never quite be sure he had hit the delicate balance of being supportive without overstepping, aware that Phryne loathed having her problems solved _for_ her even if she were being irrational, even if the obvious answer (the safe answer) was right in front of her—but an almost uncertain Phryne could be teased and cajoled back into spirits, and it was a challenge he adored.

"I don't know, Phryne. I've got two days off at once. Who's to say that I didn't arrange a night away?"

"You didn't," she said certainly.

"Is the idea so preposterous?"

"No. But it's been arranged for next month, and you never repeat your overtures this closely."

His reaction must have given him away, because she began to laugh.

"How'd you find out?" he grumbled, and she laughed harder.

"Don't try to deceive a detective. Especially one as good as I am."

"Phryne..."

"Alright!" she giggled, rolling over to retrieve an envelope from her bedside table drawer. "This arrived on Thursday and I opened it accidentally. I _was_ going to rewrite the envelope and pretend I didn't know, but I haven't had the chance!"

"You opened my mail accidentally?"

"I swear!" she protested. "That's not a line I'm willing to cross."

"I believe you. But how did you open it _accidentally_?"

"Turns out whoever sent the booking confirmation has a worse hand than you do," she said, passing it over.

Jack looked at it and chuckled. They really had managed to make the J look like a P, though the Fisher-Robinson was perfectly legible.

"I don't know why you insist on insulting my writing," he said instead. "It's not nearly as dire as all that."

"It really is," she countered, then smiled coyly. "Lucky for you, I've been hearing about these new finger exercises, all the way from America. They're said to improve both strength and dexterity."

Phryne Fisher, approximately as subtle as a breeze block to the head.

"Lucky for you, Miss Fisher," he growled in response, skittering a hand up the inside of her thigh, "I am a man who likes to improve himself at every opportunity."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> (1) I have no idea what Australians call cinder/breeze blocks, so I went with the term used in the UK and New Zealand. I did find a reference to "besser blocks" but the company it was named after did not exist in this timeframe.  
> (2) The Welfare situation. I am pulling in a bit of history and a bit of speculation here; the Depression _did_ have a huge impact on the number of children in need of care, and apparently the Depression's height in Australia was 1932. There was also a huge uptick in the number of residential-type homes in this timeframe, with the attendant problems. So I don't think it's a huge stretch that there genuinely was no place to put the kid.  
>  (3) The "hyphenation"--given Phryne's status, it would not be unheard of for Jack to hyphenate as well. So I'm choosing to believe that they both use Fisher-Robinson socially to aid in the illusion and their own last names for professional and legal matters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I give a bit of context for Jack's niece Ivy in this chapter. An elaborated version of the story can be found in [Of the Genus Hedera](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6140374/chapters/14069674).

When Jack woke the next morning he carefully slipped from beneath Phryne in a bid to keep from waking her, her previous day’s reprimands still fresh in his mind. It took approximately five seconds for her to sprawl even further across his side of the bed and he chuckled at her self-contented smirk. He dressed quietly, thinking fondly of the previous night’s dinner. Ivy’s second year examinations were coming up and she’d been studying diligently, but had carved a few hours out of her schedule to come; Jane had taken the opportunity to interrogate her thoroughly about university life, as she was due to start in the new year. Jack's brother Dan had died in Europe, and they had lost contact with his widow and their daughter a few years later; Ivy had sought Jack out upon her return to Melbourne for school. The two girls—young women really—got along remarkably well, a development that had made it simpler for Ivy to ease into the chaos of the household. 

Half-dressed, he slipped from the room to shave. Watching himself in the mirror as he began, Jack debated how to approach the day. It was technically his day off—one of the advantages of working one weekend a month—and he had initially planned to head into the station for the morning, to work on the ever growing pile of paperwork and see if he could use the time to track down Helen Fox’s next of kin. It was his usual routine to go in for the morning and meet Phryne for lunch when she eventually stirred from bed, and then they would spend the afternoon together or apart. Anthony’s presence was a hindrance to this routine. By the time he was rinsing his razor, Jack had resigned himself to an unproductive day. Still, he should be able to get some of the spring gardening done.

Back in the bedroom he exchanged his suit trousers for moleskin ones, and pulled on an older shirt suitable for rough work. Phryne woke up and watched him with sleepy eyes.

“Sorry,” he whispered, and she shook her head.

“I was already awake,” she replied. “Just enjoying the view. You’re not going to the station?”

Jack shook his head. “Small child in the house, remember?”

She groaned, and moved to get out of bed. “I’m the one who agreed. I did _not_ consider mornings.”

“Yes, well, as I recall, toddlers don’t extend the same courtesy. Stay in bed; I really do need to make headway in the garden today,” he said with a wry smile. “This just absolves me of the guilt that I should be working.”

She was already back under the covers.

“Glad to be of service,” she muttered, and promptly fell back asleep.

Jack watched her for another moment, memorising the relaxed line of her limbs. Her ability to sleep anywhere at any time was more hard-earned than people who knew only the charming socialite would have assumed; it was a holdover from the war, and he loved to watch her do it. There was a certain intimacy to watching her sleep and wake—quite suddenly if there was something wrong, and luxuriously slowly when there wasn’t—and it was one of the great delights of their disparate sleep schedules

Chuckling as she began to snore, tiny little huffs that she adamantly denied, Jack headed downstairs.

Anthony was still asleep when Jack put his head into the nursery, so he headed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Mr. Butler and Jane were already there; Mr. Butler had just put the kettle on, and Jane was rereading her school book while eating breakfast.

“Morning sir.”

“Good morning, Mr. Butler. Coffee this morning, please. I have a feeling I’ll need it by the end of the day,” Jack said, taking a seat at the table and smiling at Jane. “Good morning, Miss Ross.”

Jane looked up in surprise, too engrossed in her text to have noticed his entrance. She flashed him a cheeky grin.

“Morning, Jack.”

“You haven’t left your schoolwork until this morning, have you?”

“Oh no, I finished that before I went off with Ruth and her grandmother this weekend. Now I’m reading ahead.”

“Excellent. Anything interesting?”

Jane held up the book so Jack could see the title; it was a book on Greek history. The girl had not gone off her interest in Antiquity after the Foyle incident, though she was less fond of Egyptian tales than she had once been.

“It had a whole chapter on the Elgin Marbles,” she said. “I saw them when I was in London with Miss Phryne.”

“The British Museum has an impressive collection,” Jack agreed. “But finish your breakfast; you only have five minutes before you have to leave, and you’ve left half your plate.”

Jane took a bite of her toast before burying her nose back into her reading, and Jack laughed. His own mother had spent a ridiculous amount of time lecturing him for the same thing, and there was something oddly satisfying in finding the same traits in Jane. He had come into her life too late to be a true father, but it was as close as he’d be. He put his hand across her book.

“Breakfast, Jane. You can read on the tram.”

“Last time I read on the tram I missed my stop,” she laughed, marking her page—with a bookmark, not dog-earing the pages, and thank heavens he’d broken _one_ of them of that habit—and placing her book in her bag.

Mr. Butler placed a cup of coffee in front Jack; it was halfway to his mouth when the morning routine was broken by the sound of shuffling feet. Jack looked up to find Anthony standing in the doorway of the kitchen, dragging that stuffed dog behind him. After leaving the Welfare offices the previous afternoon, Phryne had stopped by a department store to pick up a change of clothes for the boy—clothes to fit him were the one thing that they did not already have for the Collins children—and had purchased the dog at the same time.

“It wasn’t exactly like his,” she had said when he had brought it to the dinner table the evening before. “But he can take it with him when he goes.”

It was the sort of thoughtful action he had come to expect from Phryne, and obviously one the boy appreciated. Jack put his coffee down, and went to pick him up. He sat Anthony on the chair between him and Jane, and Anthony immediately reached for Jane’s bookbag. She pulled it away with a huff, grabbed the rest of her toast, and stood up.

“I’ll see you tonight,” she said, giving Jack a peck on his cheek. “I’m going to Beth’s for dinner, but I’ll be home by seven.”

“Have a good time at school,” he replied, taking a sip of coffee. “And be home by half six, please.”

 

———

 

After breakfast, Jack changed Anthony from his pyjamas into the spare clothes Phryne had purchased and took the boy, still firmly clutching the dog, into the garden. From the small potting shed near the kitchen door he pulled out his tools, planning to clean up the winter damage before planting any of the annuals, and on a sudden impulse a second pair of gardening gloves.

“Anthony, would you like to be helpful?” he asked, vaguely remembering that the best way to keep a child of his age out of trouble was to give them a task.

When Anthony nodded, Jack placed the gloves—comically oversized—on his hands, and then found a small section of flowerbed that could do with being turned over and selected the bluntest hand spade.

“I would like you to dig,” Jack directed, demonstrating before passing the spade over.

Anthony mimicked the action, rather less effectively than Jack had done—it was more a tossing of the surface layer, but he seemed pleased enough with himself and content to continue. Jack stood and began to prune the nearest bush, watching as Anthony entertained himself by digging and tossing and digging again. His progress was slower than it would have been if he’d been left alone, but by the time Mr. Butler came out mid-morning with a pitcher of lemonade and some sandwiches Jack had made quite a bit of headway.

Anthony had spent the time digging, then quietly playing some sort of game that involved three large rocks and his dog. He was very good at entertaining himself, much to Jack’s surprise. When Mr. Butler brought the refreshments out, Jack called him over.

“Anthony, are you hungry?”

Filthy handed and filthy faced, gloves long abandoned, the boy bolted towards the wrought iron table and scrambled into one of the seats.

“Peese! Peese!”

“I’ll just get a damp rag, shall I sir?” said Mr. Butler without missing a beat, and Jack wondered what it would take to fluster the man.

A moment later, significantly cleaner, Anthony tucked into the sandwiches with a vigour previously unforeseen—he’d picked at breakfast and dinner the night before, but the fresh air had renewed his appetite. He stood on the chair, reaching for the lemonade pitcher. He wobbled slightly on the chair, but managed to get both hands around the glass and tried to lift it.

“Oh no, young man,” Jack said, taking the pitcher.

Anthony _flopped_. There really was no other word for it. He flopped onto the table as if he was utterly boneless, and whimpered his protests. Jack poured out two glasses and placed one just out of reach of flailing limbs. He drank from the other, utterly unmoved by Anthony’s complaints. When his lemonade was done, Jack placed both glasses back on the tray. Anthony bolted upright, staring at the glass.

“Noo! Noo! Me!” Anthony wailed, adamantly point to himself and then the drink. “Me! Peese me!”

It was, quite possibly, the longest speech Jack had heard from the boy. He relented, passing the glass back. Anthony picked it up carefully, took a sip, then gave a loud sigh of satisfaction.

“Dayoo.”

“You’re welcome,” Jack replied. At least the boy had manners.

When the refreshments were done, Jack and Anthony returned to the gardening. Mr. Butler brought out an old hat to keep the sun from Anthony’s eyes. It was too large, but the boy clutched it tightly then placed it on his head.

“Hat! Hat, hat!” Anthony practically sang.

“Uh, yes,” Jack said. “It’s a hat.”

“Hat!”

“Yes, a hat.”

The boy sighed happily, picked up his dog, and began to dig again.

 

———

 

Emerging slowly from sleep, Phryne stretched luxuriously; as lovely as it was to wake up with Jack in their bed, there was something to be said for waking alone. The warm sunlight through the window and the rumble of her stomach told her that it was likely lunchtime or thereabouts. Remembering the sight Jack had made in his work clothes, she smiled slightly. She would bathe and dress quickly, and with any luck catch him still at it.

Once downstairs she waved to Mr. Butler as she headed out the kitchen door. Jack was in the garden, an old flat cap on his head to keep the sun from his eyes and his sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening. She watched his sure movements as he pruned and dug and decided that he was quite possibly the most beautiful man to ever share her bed.

Certain he hadn’t taken notice of her arrival, she padded towards him quietly to wrap her arms around his waist and press a kiss to the crook of his neck.

“Good morning, Jack.”

He allowed his head to loll back and rest at her shoulder, giving her a small secretive smile in the process.

“Sleep well?”

“Mmm,” she said. “You really ought to try it.”

“We both know that if I stay in bed—sleeping, before you contradict me—past eight I can’t sleep that night.”

Phryne sighed. “I know. It’s terribly inconvenient. Means I have to wake at absurd hours if I want to ravish you.”

“How dreadful,” he said facetiously, and she laughed as she pulled away.

“How goes the gardening?”

“I’m almost done what I wanted to do today, even with my assistant,” Jack replied, tilting his head to the small boy and the… _well dug_ patch of dirt. “I’ll just finish with this rosebush and then we can do lunch?”

“And what about your assistant?”

Phryne glanced towards Anthony; the boy had ceased moving and was watching them with wary eyes from beneath an oversized cap.

“I suppose he’ll have to come with us,” Jack said, following her gaze. “We can stop by the station on the way back, see if anybody has made progress on Helen Fox’s family.”

“ _Excellent_ idea, inspector. And may I suggest a shower before we go?”

“I do hope you aren’t implying that you find me offensive?”

She leant in closer and took an exaggerated sniff; it was an earthy, masculine scent. A little more unrefined than the usual mixture of pomade and aftershave, but still unmistakably Jack.

“Not at all, darling,” she purred, looking up at him with a deceptively innocent look in her eyes. “But I’m not entirely certain I could trust other women’s restraint when you present such a tempting figure.”

One of his arms snaked around her waist, and Phryne sighed in contentment; he was remarkably good at slow burning moments. But as he moved closer to kiss her, Phryne felt an insistent tug on her cardigan and looked down. Anthony had made his way over to them, and was holding up the stuffed dog—a furry tri-coloured houndy sort of thing—for her to examine.

“Oh, you’ve gotten Cleopatra all dirty,” Phryne scolded absently, and Jack snorted.

“You named the dog Cleopatra?”

“Well, I had to get my entertainment somewhere!”

Jack just shook his head, as if he expected nothing less from her. Anthony was staring at his dog, much the worse for wear after a morning in the garden.

“Oh noooo,” he said plaintively, trying to clean the dirt away. “Oh nono. Nonono.”

Jack released Phryne and bent down to be eye-level with the boy.

“Why don’t we go into the kitchen and get Cleopatra cleaned up?” he said, his voice the very picture of calmness. “And then we can have lunch. Do you like cake?”

Anthony nodded so quickly the unruly curls on his head appeared to actually spring, and he grasped Jack’s hand and began to pull him towards the door. Jack stood up and followed him, flashing a small smile over his shoulder at Phryne in the process.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from you, Phryne, it’s that you can win over just about anybody with food.”

 

———

 

They settled on a small restaurant near the station for lunch—it was quiet and popular enough with families that Anthony would not stand out the way he would in the places Phryne preferred to dine. She drove the Hispano and Jack rode in the passenger seat, Anthony in his lap. The last thing they wanted was for the boy to vault out of the unenclosed back seat and end up in the road.

They were seated in a circular booth, and Jack and Phryne placed Anthony between them to prevent any attempts to flee.  Remembering that his mother had worked at a restaurant, Phryne was not completely surprised to find that Anthony had impeccable manners; he sat quietly, used his silverware and napkin with only a little difficulty, and said please and thank you when served. She didn’t expect it would last, but it made for a pleasant meal.

An older woman stopped by their table as she was leaving.

“I just wanted to say that you have a beautiful family. He is so well-behaved,” she said, casting a reprimanding look at the table where a rambunctious girl of a similar age was singing.

Phryne found herself offended on behalf of the girl—she wasn’t being irritating, just enthused, and Phryne had a low tolerance for irritation—and stiffened. Under other circumstances the girl could easily be Aggie Collins, and would almost have been herself as a child if they’d ever had the money to dine out when she was that age. Jack laid a hand on her thigh beneath the table and smiled at the woman.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m afraid we aren’t to credit for his good manners. I can only hope that he is confident enough one day to share his interests with an audience.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, as if she wasn’t entirely sure whether she’d just been insulted. Deciding to forge on regardless, she smiled again.

“He’s a very beautiful boy. Such curls!”

She reached out as if to touch them, and Anthony shied away and into Phryne’s side.

“Ah,” Jack said firmly, reaching out to intervene. “Please don’t touch the child.”

The woman drew her hand back in a huff. But there was no room for argument in Jack’s tone, and Phryne smiled slightly as she watched the woman—clearly unused to being reprimanded for her child meddling, and by a _man_ —struggle for a moment before her lips thinned into a tight line and she walked away.

“I’m very thankful you’ve never used your inspector voice on me,” said Phryne with a small laugh once she was gone. “I might actually be compelled to comply.”

“Somehow I doubt that very much,” Jack replied. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

———

 

The rest of the week did not go so easily; by the time Jack was back at the station on Wednesday, irritated that he had gotten nothing work related done on his days off and would therefore need to stay late or bring it home with him, Phryne was questioning why she’d ever volunteered to take Anthony in. Dot was home with a sick Theo and Mr. Butler had errands to run, which left her alone with a toddler for several hours. He continued to be quiet and compliant, but there were only so many times she could applaud a wooden block tower; when she made the mistake of bringing him into the library so she could go over her accounts, she looked to find him halfway up a bookshelf, Cleopatra’s ear clenched firmly between his teeth. She hadn’t heard a sound.

“Absolutely not, Anthony,” she said firmly, plucking the boy from his perch.

“Oooh, nono,” he wailed in response, dog dropping to the floor.  

“You and I are going to have a little talk if I find you there again,” she said firmly, placing him in front of the blocks she’d brought in with them. “I’m not above sending you to the orphanage if you ruin my books. Or my furniture. Or my wardrobe.”

“Nono. No nono.”

“Yes yes.”

By the third time she’d retrieved him, her patience was at its limits. Her corrections that time were harsh, and the boy promptly burst into tears at the tone.

“Mummmmmmmmm!” he wailed. “Mummummum!”

And while part of her felt like an utter heel—of course being chastised would make him miss his mother, a problem they had somehow managed to avoid up to that point—the rest of her had no patience for caterwauling. She picked him up with one arm, his dog in the other, and marched both of them to the nursery as he continued to sob.

“Lie down,” she said as she deposited him on the bed.

She left the room, shutting the door behind her, and closed her eyes as his shrieking ramped up and the subsided. When he was quiet, Phryne peeked into the room; he had fallen asleep on the bed, face buried in the sheets. He must have been exhausted. Phryne shut the door, then moved to the entrance to telephone Ed Prentice in the hopes a foster place had opened up.

“Not since you telephoned twelve hours ago,” he replied.

Phryne sighed and thanked him, then stared at the telephone for several minutes. This was not sustainable, not even in the short term. Sighing again, Phryne picked up the telephone and placed another call.

“Hullo?” came a voice from the other end.

“Hello, Mairi? It’s Phryne. Is there any chance you can come a little earlier than planned?”


	6. Chapter 6

Jack Robinson woke up on the morning of his fortieth birthday with Phryne between his thighs, small hands tracing shapes across them.

“Good morning, Miss Fisher.”

She gave him a wickedly suggestive smile in response, and he leaned back against the pillows and sighed.

“Go ahead then,” he groaned, feeling her hand slide from his thigh to his half-erect cock.

“How generous of you,” she purred as she began to stroke him.

And while he loved her mouth for the quicksilver words, this was definitely a close second. The tiny dig of her fingernails against his hip when he came, pinpricks of pain that heightened the pleasure, was the only thing keeping him in the room. At least until she moved up his body and kissed him thoroughly, when he could still taste himself lingering on her tongue. He moaned again, then playfully flipped her onto her back and returned the favour.

Afterwards they lay wrapped in each other, not quite ready to move.

“So,” she said coyly. “How did you imagine your big day going?”

“Not like that,” he chuckled, running his fingers through her hair.  

“You’re so easily surprised.”

“I don’t like to presume,” he chided.

“If you haven’t learnt to presume by now, you’re a hopeless case.”

“I prefer chivalrous.”

She propped herself up on an elbow, watching him carefully as if trying to decide.

“No,” she finally proclaimed with utter solemnity. “Definitely hopeless.”

And really, there was no possible response to that than to kiss her thoroughly. So he did. And when they parted, both of them panting lightly, she placed her palm against his chest and hummed.

“I’d still like an answer, you know.”

“To what?”

“What you imagined this day would be like.”

“I’ve learnt never to make assumptions when it comes to you.”  

“I meant…” she nibbled her bottom lip, looking almost contemplative. “I meant before. How did the young Jack Robinson imagine such a momentous occasion?”

He shrugged. The truth was he’d never given much thought to his age, but if she was asking than it was, for whatever reason, important to her.

“Let me think. Twenty year old Jack Robinson had just started stepping out with a lovely girl, and if he thought forty was at all possible, I imagine he’d have thought it would leave him significantly more decrepit and surrounded by children. The naivety of youth. Twenty five year old Jack Robinson didn’t think he’d live to see it.”

That had been during the war, a fact she silently acknowledged with nothing more than a gentle stroke of her fingers against his side.

“And what about thirty?” she asked quietly.

“Thirty year old Jack was looking down the barrel at a promotion and quarreling with his wife about whether or not to accept it.”

“Did you?”

“I did. And while I’m _grateful_ I did, it’s always been tainted by the knowledge that my father-in-law was behind it. I’ve tried very hard to ensure that I lived up to that level of trust.”

She tucked her hair behind her hair, watching him.

“Well, my darling, I think you can safely say you have. And while I will happily tease you about many things, I am utterly sincere on that matter.”

He smiled ever-so-slightly at her declaration.

“And when I was thirty five,” he offered. “I had no idea what force of nature was heading towards me mere months later.”

“It wouldn’t happen to have been a raven-haired beauty so charming and irresistible you lost all reason, would it?”

“Dear god no, Miss Fisher. It was you.”

 

———

 

They headed downstairs an hour later, meeting Jack’s mother in the kitchen. She had arrived Friday morning, explaining that she could help with Anthony if he was still there and have extra time visiting her son if he wasn’t. None of them had anticipated the boy to still be there a week after taking him in, and Mairi had immovable plans that meant she was leaving the following day, but her help had been invaluable. She was bustling around the kitchen when they came in, moving around Mr. Butler like a choreographed dance—they had long given up on her allowing Mr. Butler to complete his job without assistance, and at least the two of them got along like a house on fire. Anthony was seated at the table, eating a bowl of porridge.

“Morn’ you two,” she brightly.

“Hello, Mairi,” said Phryne. “What smells so delicious?”

“Tattie scones, amongst other things,” Jack’s mother replied. “Take yer plate.”

Jack had not been certain how Phryne and his mother would get on before their first meeting; they had just enough in common to make sparks fly if they had begun antagonistically. He needn’t have worried; his mum had been prickly as she tried to suss out Phryne’s intentions towards her son, and Phryne’s intentions had started with a good glass of scotch whisky and just enough backbone. Ten minutes later they were chatting as if they’d been friends for years; when his mother was gone, Phryne had turned to him.

“No wonder you weren’t taken in by my charms,” she had laughed. “Your mother is a treasure.”

And that had been that.

After breakfast Jack spent some time in the garden—hurried outside by his mother, who was no doubt baking a cake, and accompanied by both Anthony, who entertained himself with a ball, and Phryne, who entertained herself by lounging in a chair and providing commentary over the top of her book—before coming in for a leisurely lunch.

Jane, Ivy, and the entire Collins clan stopped by for the meal, a spread of his favourite foods finished off with a chocolate and cherry cake. It was far more subdued than he had expected, given the attention Phryne had drawn to the date, but it was exactly what he would have chosen. As most of the guests left—Collins back to the station, Ivy and Jane back to their respective classes, Dot and the children returning home—Jack took Phryne’s arm.

“Thank you. This was—”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet, Jack. You and I are going out this evening,” she said, flashing him a salacious smile. “In fact, I need to go pick up my dress.”

And with that, she glided out the front door. Jack shook his head ruefully, certain that the evening’s entertainments would be far less subdued but very much worth it, and joined his mother and Anthony in the garden yet again.

“He’s a sweet lad,” his mum said as they watched him chase the ball.

“He is,” Jack said. “He’s handled the situation remarkably well, all things considered.”

They were silent for a moment. Finally, Mairi cocked her head.

“Time is ticking, Jack, if you two are to have any hope—”

“No,” Jack said decisively. It was understandable that the thought had crossed her mind, but it was not a topic of conversation he wished to delve into. “Neither one of us has any interest in having children, mum.”

“Nae even a wee bit?”

“Mum!”

“Ye were always the bairn with with stars in his eyes over every new babe on the street.”

“That is a gross exaggeration,” said Jack dryly. “In both accent and content. We both know that was more a deep desire to have a younger sibling I could order around the way Dan did me.”

“Ye did want it though, you cannae deny?”

She had been privy to the first and the last times Rosie had fallen—the first because Rosie had been so optimistic, the last because it had come late enough they had believed themselves safe—and knew it had affected him.  

“I did. And now I do not.”    

“You ken I love you. If you’re content—”

“I am,” he said firmly. “More than content.”

“Then I’ll say no more.”

“Thank you.”

 

———

 

On Wednesday, Ed Prentice stopped by Wardlow at lunch.

“Sit down,” Phryne directed, indicating one of the empty dining chairs. Ed took it gratefully. “How can I help you today?”

“Still no progress on finding next of kin. I presume Jack’s gotten no further with police resources?” he asked, selecting a sandwich from a tray provided by Mr. Butler.

There were days Phryne was certain that she fed half of Melbourne’s civil servants.

She shook her head. “Turns out criminal investigations take precedence, even the dull ones.”

Her own business had been slow. As a general rule, Jack did not seek out her help in cases—it should have been her first warning when he’d called her over the Helen Fox murder—nor she his unless a police presence was genuinely required, because it was too easy for them to make a habit of it. They did much better when they had the independence of their own investigations; the cases still overlapped with alarming frequency and they savoured the opportunity to work together, but they rarely sought it out.

“I imagine they would,” Ed replied. “How is Anthony settling in?”

“Well enough, under the circumstances.”

Anthony had eaten lunch earlier and was currently playing outside with Dot and her children. Aggie and Theo usually spent days with a grandmother when Dot was working, but under the circumstances Dot had thought it might be best for Anthony to have playmates of a similar age. It seemed to have worked; he had opened up quite a bit in the week and a half since they’d brought him into the house. He was smiling more, at least, and showing moments of willfulness; Phryne had never thought she’d find the latter a positive thing, but the day before he had refused to come inside as Dot was getting ready to head home and she was almost relieved. Phryne had ended up sitting in a chair outside with a cocktail and watching him run in circles until Jack had gotten home half an hour later. It had been a lovely day, and the entire experience was almost pleasant. Admittedly it would have been more pleasant without the scenery being disturbed by the whirling dervish, but he hadn’t shrieked once, so it could have been worse.

“What will happen if you can’t find next of kin?” Phryne asked.

“He’ll stay in the system unless we find him an adoptive family. But he’s a young, healthy, and male—he shouldn’t have to wait too long, if we establish nobody has a claim. Ideally we’ll find his kin, because it’s a much easier process, but either way I cannot imagine it will be more than another week or two. Probably sooner than another foster place opens up, I’m afraid, but I am trying.”

“I know, Ed,” she said. “He’s not been much bother, at least. I don’t suppose Welfare has the budget to hire a private detective to track down the family?”

Why this obvious answer had not come to her sooner, she had no idea. Clearly the situation had scrambled her brains.

“Oddly enough, no,” Ed said wryly; the lack of resources was a topic that was raised every time they spoke.

“I suppose I’ll just have to do it without payment then,” Phryne said. “Purely as a favour to you, of course.”

“Of course. I’m sure I completely fabricated the twenty-three telephone calls where you checked the status of another placement opening.”

“That could not possibly be sarcasm I heard, could it?”

“Never,” Ed said dryly. “But it would be very helpful if you could.”

“Of course. If you could have a copy of any documentation you have sent over, I’ll look it over. What seems to be the problem?”

“Right now we can find nothing of use from Helen Fox’s paternal side, and the last known address of her aunt on the maternal side is out of date. Neither should be a hindrance, but there are only so many hours in the day and another pair of eyes will make a difference.”

It was the sort of thing that was a private detective’s bread and butter, at least the ones that did it to make a living. Phryne generally avoided such cases because they were tedious, but it shouldn’t be _difficult_. The recent lack of investigations—it had been slow enough that Jack would have called her in to consult with a murder if he’d had one, if only to stave off the inevitable boredom, but only minor crimes had crossed his desk—had left her without much to do, and other than a few social commitments she’d spent most of her time at home with Anthony. She was hideously bored, and it had been less than two weeks. No wonder Dot had been so eager to continue working after the children were born; Phryne was close to gnawing her own arm off.

“I’m more than happy to help,” she smiled.

“I’ll make sure they’re ready for you tomorrow then.”

 

———

 

The case files were a mess; they had Helen Fox’s birth certificate but not Anthony’s, though Jack assured her that the child had no father listed and it was therefore of no use for the matter at hand. When he got home on Thursday night he brought her up to date on what little the police had uncovered between other investigations; Connie Wilkes had continued her refusal to cooperate and the station had been inundated with a large number of minor cases, so there was very little to add to Welfare’s file. Phryne and Jack sat side by side on the chaise in the parlour, the papers laid out on the table in front of them and an occasional playful brush of a foot or a hand the only indication that it was anything but two peers working an investigation.

Helen Fox had been the only child to survive until adulthood, and both her parents were deceased. Her mother had two sisters; Connie Wilkes, now in gaol for her murder, and Betty Dixon. The last known address for Betty was ten years out of date and the current occupants had no recollection of the woman. On the other side, Helen’s father had immigrated to Australia from London many years before as a single man, and there was nothing to suggest that any of his family had followed him. Phryne made the appropriate first step inquiries Friday morning—checking with Births, Deaths and Marriages and the land registry offices for documentation, and speaking with her solicitor in England regarding tracing the relatives of Helen’s father—then decided that the next step would be to speak again with the people who had known Helen herself.

Leaving Anthony under Dot’s exceptional care—her friend had taken on most of the work with a smile, and Phryne decided to significantly up her wages as soon as possible without causing offense—she went first to Helen’s place of employment, and then the block of flats where she had lived her life. The restaurant  brought no new information forward, as Phryne had been on site for the initial interviews, but the neighbours were slightly more helpful. Admittedly most of that help was in ruling possibilities out rather than fresh leads, but it was all grunt work at this stage and every step counted.

One neighbour, a Mrs. Bowen, had been the one to watch Anthony while his mother worked. She was a jovial woman in her early forties; her own two girls were off to school during the day and watching Anthony had provided a much-needed second source of income.

“Helen didn’t talk about her family,” she said, offering Phryne a cup of tea. “Sweet girl, kept to herself. Only kin I recall her mentioning was the dead husband—and I’m not entirely certain he existed, if you catch my meaning—and that her father was English. Not much to go on, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve been more than helpful, Mrs. Bowen,” Phryne said with a smile. Then she opened her purse and extracted a card. “If I leave my details with you, could you contact me if anything else, no matter how small, comes to mind?”

“Of course. Would you care for a biscuit?”

Phryne selected a ginger nut from the plate and thanked her host.

“You never saw a more devoted mother,” said Mrs. Bowen, shaking her head sadly. “Thought the sun rose and set on that boy, but did it right. Real respectful. What will happen to him?"

"If we can't find a relation to take him in, he'll go to Welfare. They seem to think he stands a decent chance of being adopted."

"I'd take him in myself if we weren't already crowded beyond capacity. Four people in a single bedroom is too many. Where is he now?"

"A temporary foster family."

The woman grimaced. "I've seen those foster families. Bad news, the lot."

Phryne thought of Mr. Butler’s patience and Dot’s gentle understanding and Jack showing him the flowers in the garden.

"This is a good family," she said, with a small smile. "He's being doted upon. Their other ward is off to university next year, even. They are very proud of her."

"Do you reckon they'll keep him?" the woman asked.

"I believe that they are hoping for him to find family, not just a foster situation," she said diplomatically. _And soon, for everyone’s sake._


	7. Chapter 7

With Mairi gone and an investigation to run, Phryne needed to make some sort of arrangement for Anthony’s care during the day. Dot had stepped into the role, but it left her unable to execute some of her duties on the investigating side of things; a nanny was not practical for such a short period of time—Phryne was certain she would find Betty Dixon or another family member quickly—and there was nobody in her circle that was free and willing. Dot’s mother took on the Collins children, but could not add to the commitment; Phryne quite disliked the woman anyway. The answer came on the Sunday which marked the beginning of the third week; Anthony woke up screaming—not for the first time, but this was by far the worst—and even Phryne had been roused from her bed.

She slipped downstairs to find Jack in the nursery muttering words of comfort to Anthony, who was sobbing on his lap. The light from the half moon illuminated the room just enough for Phryne to watch silently from the doorway, neither of them aware she was there.   

“Anthony,” he said quietly stroking the boy’s arm. “Anthony, can you find Cleopatra? And I cannot believe I just said that. Miss Fisher has quite a bit to answer for, doesn’t she? Funny Miss Fisher.”

The boy nodded, his wayward curls glowing in the moonlight. He found the dog tangled in the sheets and pulled her close, the sobs abating. Jack continued to hold him, rocking gently. His platitudes had morphed into a song, some sort of lullaby that Phryne did not recognise.

 _O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,_  
_Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;_  
_The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,_  
_They are all belonging, dear babie, to thee._  
_O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo._

 _O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,_  
_It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;_  
_Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,_  
_Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed._  
_O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo._

 _O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,_  
_When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;_  
_Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,_  
_For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day._  
_O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo._

When the song was over, Jack shifted to resettle the boy beneath the covers.

“There we are, Ant,” he said quietly.

Phryne blinked back tears at the tenderness and the nickname, slipped so easily from his lips. It was not a surprise; Jack had always had an aura of gentleness about him when dealing with children, a mix of pragmatism and understanding that they might not be good children, but they were still children. Still _people_ , worthy of kindness and respect. But to see it in their house, to know that he might have found himself a woman who relished the idea of parenthood instead of rejecting it…it was unexpected. It was unsettling.

She headed back upstairs and slid between the sheets, curled on her side and facing away from Jack’s half of the bed. A few minutes later she heard his footsteps, solid and slow, as he came into the room and lay beside her. His hand rested on her hip for a moment, and she moved closer.

“Nightmare?” she asked, as if she had not seen it for herself.

“Mmm,” replied Jack in a whisper. “He’s lost everything familiar to him. Do you remember that? Coming home and finding that none of it was as it had been?”

She rolled over, examined Jack’s profile.

“Yes,” she said simply. “And it never was again. But there were moments. Landmarks.”

“That’s why you bought the dog?” Jack asked, and Phryne loved him for understanding.

“I think, perhaps, a familiar face would help. I’ll speak to Emily Bowen in the morning. The neighbour? See if she would be interested in minding him while her girls are at school. I know she needed the money.”

Jack nodded.

“In the morning. For now, let’s get some sleep.”

 

———

 

Forty, Jack decided, was officially too old to be getting up in the middle of the night to deal with weeping children. He had spent the better part of the last two decades with unusual sleep patterns, between shift work and war (and the memories of war afterwards) and burning the candle at both ends to get his job done, but none of it was as exhausting as the moment his slumber was interrupted by the first wail coming through the floorboards. Mr. Butler had met him at the nursery door the first time, but Jack had sent him back to bed—the man might be part of the family and go above and beyond his obligations, but there were limits—and dealt with it himself.  

It was not every night, thankfully, and usually Jack managed to stumbled downstairs, soothe Anthony and be back in his own bed without waking properly, but by the end of the second week he was tired. Phryne appeared to sleep through it all, a fact that left him slightly irritable and slightly amused. This whole thing had been her idea—in the middle of the night he conveniently neglected to remember that he had agreed and that she could not have predicted the length of his stay—but that was clearly not enough to rouse her.

He had sung more lullabies than he even realised he knew, old Scots songs he’d learnt on his mother’s knee mostly, and nursery rhymes where he made up half the lines when he realised he’d forgotten. It was more suitable than the other recitations to come to mind; somehow he did not think that a two year old would appreciate the existential crisis of Hamlet or the themes in John Donne’s works.  Still, there were moments when peace fell again and the only sounds were the soft snuffling of a sleeping child, the rustle of blankets, the noise found only in silence, and in those moments he allowed it to feel familiar. Transitive moments, gone before he could capture them; it was for the best, that he could not memorise the sensations and return to them once they had passed. It was an idle daydream, and it would not do to dwell.  

Phryne’s plan to seek out Mrs. Bowen was helpful; it was arranged that she would arrive at eight and leave at two, driven by Cec and Bert to account for her own children’s schedule, and from there they could cobble together care from other sources. It was not ideal, but it would suffice for the short term. And it seemed to bring Phryne some relief; while Jack had happily taken on much of the care, having had more experience and less dislike, he had fallen into the assumption that Phryne would be the one to make arrangements.

At work, Jack was investigating a series of burglaries; he had hit another wall and usually would have asked Phryne to go over the case with him—even if she was not officially investigating it was sometimes useful to bounce ideas off of her—but she was caught up in her queries about Anthony’s family. He knew there was something he had overlooked, and wondered whether his disturbed sleep was the reason he had done so. He sighed loudly, deciding that as much as he would like to go home when his shift was over he really had to make headway, and placed a telephone call.

Phryne was the one who answered, chipper as always. He explained the situation and she clucked sympathetically.

“No, of course, darling. That absolutely has to take precedence.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“What’s there to thank, Jack? You have a job, I don’t expect that to come crashing to a halt because I rather naively assumed that it couldn’t possibly be that hard to track down a person we had a name and address for.”

“Another good day then?” he asked, smiling slightly at her frustrated tone.

“Well, I know now all there is to know about Muriel Hamilton and her descendents. None of whom are related to Helen Fox, but I suppose it might be useful information some day.”

Jack chuckled.

“I’ll try not to be too late,” he said. And then, because the freedom to do so never grew old, added, “I love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll have Mr. Bu—Anthony, get off of those stairs! I’ll see you tonight, Jack,” she said, and the line went dead.

An hour later, Jack had the linked cases spread across his desk and was standing, hands on the desk, as he reread the information once again. From outside the office there was a commotion, then his door swung open and Phryne and Anthony both came through. Phryne was carrying a picnic basket, and Anthony once again had Cleopatra. Jack rarely saw him without it, but if it helped the boy cope with his world being completely upended, it was worth it.

“Miss Fisher!”

Phryne dropped the basket on one of the visitor’s chairs, then came around the desk to give him a small peck hello.

“Mr. Butler heard that you were staying late and _insisted_ on preparing a basket. So Anthony and I decided to bring it by,” she said brightly, her attention shifting to his desk. “Is this the case?”

Before Jack could nod in agreement she was reading the files.

“You may as well eat, darling, and then I can bring the basket home with me,” she said without looking up.

Rather than argue, Jack retrieved the food and settled in one of the visitor’s chair. He patted the second and Anthony climbed up.

“Are you hungry, Ant? Shall we see what Mr. Butler has packed?”

The boy nodded, and Jack quickly unpacked the basket. Cold meats and cheeses, some asparagus spears, and two slices of apple tart.  

“Are you eating?” he asked Phryne.

“No, thank you,” she said, moving some of the files around. “There’s something here.”

“I’ve been at it for a week. I can’t see it.”

She moved another file, then moved it back. Jack offered Anthony food, not quite willing to trust a toddler with a china plate. Halfway through the meal she pointed victoriously at one of the files.

“I know him. Gregory Wilkes. He’s a friend of Aunt P’s and he hired me last month for an adultery investigation. I couldn’t find anything, and I wouldn’t have blamed the wife if she had—don’t give me that look, darling—but what are the chances that the wife’s wedding set would disappear mere weeks later?”

“Not impossible, but unlikely,” Jack agreed.

“That’s not the only thing, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“It’s aggravating.”

“Were all these cases your station?” she asked. “Could there be wrong information somewhere along the line?”

“I’ve already ruled it out.”

Phryne picked up a file again, flipped through it, then tossed it back on the desk.

“Today has not been a good day,” she said. “Betty Dixon doesn’t appear to exist except we know she does, I can’t see the pattern even though it’s staring me in the face….”

“You don’t have to solve everything,” Jack said, packing the food back in the basket. “And now I have a reason to re-interview Mr. Wilkes, which is more than I had twenty minutes ago. Why don’t we go home? The cases will be there tomorrow.”

She nodded. quickly gathering the paperwork and locking it into his desk.

“I don’t suppose you have plans for improving my day?” she asked when it was done, back to her usual flirtatiousness.

“One or two, Miss Fisher. One or two.”

 

———

 

Thursday evening, with Mr. Butler at his weekly card game and Jane attending yet another study session at a friend’s house, Jack and Phryne brought Anthony into the smaller parlour after an early dinner. At the revelation that a recent case of Phryne’s had intersected with Jack’s ongoing investigation, they were comparing notes. Well, they were attempting to compare notes.

Anthony had warmed up to the household considerably, which was both objectively good—it meant that he was doing well with the arrangement—and practically bad, because it meant that his silent compliance had begun to fade. He was still, strictly speaking, well-behaved; he was quiet, followed directions reasonably well provided they were simple enough, and was not rambunctious enough to be truly obnoxious. In essence, there were worse children to share her home with. He was also single-mindedly determined to scale every tall surface in the entire house.

“I swear, you must be part squirrel,” Phryne said, removing him from a shelf for the umpteenth time since she had gotten home. “In fact, next time I find you climbing who-knows-where I’ll start calling you one.”

Jack looked up, and damn him for looking far too amused by her proclamation. _Honestly_! A little help would not be remiss—she may have been the one to volunteer, and she was hardly going to let the child break his neck under her care, but he was the one making stupidly soft eyes at the boy from time to time.  

Jack chuckled and closed the file, then stood up.

“Come along then, Ant. Let’s leave Miss Fisher to her own devices and get you ready for bed. Are you choosing the story tonight?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically, wriggling out of Phryne’s arms to head towards the door.

“Ah!” Jack corrected, a few steps behind and a stickler for manners. “Please say good night to Miss Fisher.”

Anthony paused and turned, then waved at Phryne. “Bed Mims! Bed!”

Phryne could only assume it was his best effort.

“Good night, squirrel child,” she said, surprised to realise she was smiling slightly.

When Jack returned to the parlour twenty minutes later, he stood at the doorway and watched her with an amused smirk. She crossed her arms defiantly and waited for his comment; he poured himself a drink first, then reopened the file he had been reading before meeting her eyes.

“A squirrel, Phryne? Really? Surely a monkey would be the logical choice? Or a possum?”

Phryne shook her head.

“Between the bushy hair and the whole ‘nuisance introduced to an unfamiliar environment for dubious reasons’ aspect, I am definitely siding with squirrels here.”

“Fair enough,” Jack said, and took another sip of his whiskey. “Now, about this case….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Squirrels are not native to Australia. There was, however, an introduced grey squirrel population in Melbourne. I've found [one source](http://www.emelbourne.net.au/biogs/EM00892b.htm) that states the population did not become extinct until the 1940s: "American Eastern Grey Squirrels were introduced about 1870 to the Ripponlea area, spreading as far as Kew but becoming extinct in the 1940s." So, oddly enough the timing and location makes Anthony and squirrel connections a perfectly feasible thing. Not what I expected when it was first joked that "Squirrel" should become his nickname instead of just my nickname for the fic, but a lovely bit of serendipity.
> 
> I have no idea if Lullaby of an Infant Chief was ever traditionally used as a lullaby; it was basically Sir Walter Scott's English-language version of a Gaelic song, and I do not know how widespread that version would have been. It is not out of the realm of possible that Mairi adapted it herself, however, and it does appear under various names in music books eventually.


	8. Chapter 8

Bored, irritable, and unwilling to waste a beautiful spring day, Phryne found herself accompanying Jack and Anthony to the botanical gardens Sunday morning. Jane stayed home, insisting that she could study best with a quiet house, and Phryne had a feeling that was not the whole story. Jack had originally arranged the day to get the child out of the house while Phryne slept, but she found that she was oddly restless and joined them at the kitchen table for breakfast. When the plans were mentioned, she agreed to go along—it was one of the places Jack would go when he needed to think, usually because the station had become stifling, and Phryne joined him when she was so inclined. It was an oasis of peace in the middle of the city, and seemed a perfect outlet for her mood.

It began well enough: Anthony would run ahead on the paths, staying well in sight and returning at the first sign of other people approaching, and Phryne strolled arm in arm with Jack. It was, she thought briefly, almost _nice_ to see the boy’s enthusiasm.

“Mims! Dat! Dat!” he would occasionally call out, pointing to something in the sky or along the side of the walk. Thankfully he did not seem to need any acknowledgment beyond her turning in the direction he indicated, and even Phryne was willing to put out that much effort.

In one of the large open expanses they stopped for an ice cream. Jack spread his coat—why he insisted on bringing it when the day was promising to be hot eluded her—in the shade of a tree to protect Phryne’s white trousers, then sat beside her. He loosened his tie as a concession to the heat, arms loosely resting on the top of his raised knees, and painted a picture of such relaxed pleasure that she wondered exactly how close she could get before he voiced an objection. Her plans were waylaid by Anthony sprawling between them, just missing the hem of her blouse with his ice cream.

Phryne sighed, but before she could protest movement in the tree above caught her attention. She watched for a moment, and sure enough recognised the creature that emerged from the branches.

“Oh, look,” she said lightly. “There’s a squirrel up in the tree.”

Anthony bolted upright.

“Me?” he asked, and Phryne did laugh at that. She had called him squirrel several times in the days since her threat, usually when he was wreaking havoc; she hadn’t realised that he’d actually been listening.

“Smaller than you,” she said. “Though not by much. Look up.”

Anthony complied, dropping his half-eaten ice cream onto Jack’s coat in the process.

“Dat! Dat! Dat me!”

Jack sighed, pulling a handkerchief from his trouser pocket to clean the coat as best he could. Phryne laughed at him and reclined back on her elbows, watching Anthony grow bored of the squirrel and leap up to play nearby once again. They eventually roused themselves from beneath the tree after Jack almost fell asleep, continuing their stroll. By noon, the sun overhead left it unseasonably hot and bright. Phryne watched from behind her sunglasses as Anthony had a complete meltdown over that fact, thankful that there was nobody around to witness.

Jack, showing irritation for what might have been the first time since he’d walked into the nursery to find that he’d been volunteered for duty, was attempting to talk some sense into the wailing child; it was a futile task, a fact she could have pointed out with the simple observation that he was a child. Finally Jack huffed, removed the hat from his own head, and stuck it on Anthony’s. The tears ceased instantly and he beamed, and Phryne marveled once again at the mercurial nature of children. Exhausting.

“Hat, hat, hat!” Anthony shouted, hugging Jack before running off once more.

Jack watched him go with a perplexed look on his face, as if he had not expected the contact or knew what to do with it. He stood, loping the short distance towards Phryne.

“You seem quite the popular figure,” she remarked.

He glanced back towards the boy, who had progressed to spinning in small circles.

“Yes,” he replied. “But I haven’t the foggiest idea why.”

 

———

 

Phryne was in the midst of a perfectly lovely conversation with Mac about the latest meeting of the Adventuresses Club and its newest member—a stunning young woman by the name of Catherine that Phryne was inclined to think was of the Sapphic persuasion and Mac was inclined to think was attractive regardless of inclinations in the boudoir—when their musings were interrupted by a loud bang followed by a horrific shriek.

“Probably fell off a table,” Phryne said irritably, waving her hand in the direction of the door. “It’s inevitable, really. Dot’s with him.”

The screaming continued, and Phryne placed her teacup on the tray and grimaced. She was about to make a quip about the distinct pleasures of a house without children when the sound gained a primal ferocity that had both Phryne and Mac out of their seats and heading to the kitchen in tandem.

“It’s a damn good thing you’re a doctor,” Phryne said on the way, as if such a comment could keep the need for Mac’s skills at bay.

“I’d be more use if I had my bag,” Mac replied. “We’ll have to see how well-stocked Mr. Butler keeps the medical kit.”

In the kitchen, Phryne’s first impression was blood, quickly superseded by the realisation it was cherry jam—there on the floor was the pot that had been upended as it cooled, and the scent of cherries filled the air—but for a moment her gut clenched as she sought the source.

Dot was knelt before Anthony, trying to calm him.

“It’s all right, Anthony,” she said, touching the jam on her sleeve. “See? It’s just a bit of jam. Silly me just spilled it, see?”

Anthony continued to shriek, completely unresponsive of Dot’s calming platitudes, his entire body shaking with the force of his screams. Mac bent beside him, checking him over for signs of burns or injury, but Phryne knew she would find none. At Mac’s nod, Dot tried to pull the boy in for a hug; he continued to wail, a wordless and deep sound ripped from his chest, his entire body rigid.

“That’s quite enough nonsense now!” Dot said sharply, pulling back. “It was a fright, but there’s no need for hysterics.”

His screams continued unabated, the entire world shut out of wherever he found himself. Mac looked up at Phryne, both of them recognising the sound from too many nights in battlefield hospitals. Right. Phryne knew how to deal with that, at least.

“Dot, I need you to telephone Jack, tell him to come home immediately,” Phryne ordered, crouching down beside Anthony.  The boy was closest to Jack, and he would have the best luck reaching him in this state. “Mac, do you have—”

“No bag,” Mac reminded her. “I can telephone a colleague.”

Phryne nodded.

“After Dot’s spoken with Jack,” she said; her companion was already heading towards the telephone in the corridor.

“Anthony?” She reached out and touched Anthony’s shoulder; there was no response, not even a hitch in his breath. “Squirrel?”

Nothing. Standing, Phryne picked him up, his entire body caught up in his waking nightmare, and brought him into the nursery. She laid him on the bed; unable to leave anyone in that state, she began to rub his back and mutter soft noises, willing him to calm. Touch and sound, attempts to anchor him to the world. Phryne cast her mind back, trying to remember the sorts of fairy tales she had told Janey on nights when her father had been in a particularly dark mood, but came up with nothing. She’d have to improvise.

“Once there were two princesses…” she began.

 

———

 

Jack was in the middle of an interview when Collins knocked on the door, jerking his head towards the corridor and insisting there was a telephone call.

“Who is it?” he asked quietly when he crossed the room, casting his eye back to the witness nervously examining the table.

“Dottie, sir.”

“As fond as I am of Mrs. Collins, that can wait.”

Hugh shook his head. “She sounds upset, sir, says Miss Fisher insisted you come home right away.”

“Quite frankly, Collins, if Miss Fisher is speaking then there’s nothing that couldn’t possibly wait five minutes while I finish this interview.”

“I think… I think it might be Anthony, sir. I heard screaming in the background.”

Jack’s stomach dropped.

“Mrs. Collins did say the house?” he confirmed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Hugh nodded. At least it wasn’t a hospital. “Right, finish taking the statement. And ask again about whether he’s ever met the other burglary victims. If you need to reach me—”

“You’ll be at home, sir,” Hugh finished promptly. “Nobody could fault you for that.”

Jack shook his head ruefully. He could bloody well fault himself. _What sort of blithering idiot…_. He sighed; he could untangle that thought later. Home first. He grabbed his hat and jacket and drove at precisely the speed limit until the familiar house was in his sights. He parked quickly and jogged up the path and through the front door. Mac was waiting in the hall—he wasn’t certain whether it was good or bad news that the doctor was there—and she gave him a strained smile.

“We had a bit of upset,” she said.

“If you can call that an ‘upset’,” remarked Mrs. Collins, emerging from the back of the house. “I’ve never seen a child carry on so.”

“What’s going on?” Jack asked. “Collins said there was screaming?”

“Well, inspector, I was making cherry jam and had left it to cool—”

“Dot here upended the pot, Anthony saw it, and it set him off,” Mac said bluntly.

“I was called home in the middle of the day for a _tantrum_?” Jack asked incredulously.

He almost would have preferred that to Mac’s shaken head.

“No, it was…very reminiscent of—”

“Oh!” Dot gasped, as if suddenly understanding. “No wonder Miss Phryne….”

“Yes,” Mac said. “No wonder. We were just waiting for another doctor to come by with a sedative, but he’s fallen silent. I was about to see for myself when I heard you at the door.”

“And Phryne?”

“She took him through to the bedroom. Still there, far as I know.”

Jack nodded in understanding and headed towards the nursery. When he arrived he knocked softly at the door before stepping inside; Phryne was seated at the edge of the bed, a sleeping Anthony’s head in her lap as she stroked his hair. The look in her eyes conveyed everything her tightly drawn lips refused to say, and he moved to sit beside her. After a moment, she released a deep breath.

“I haven’t heard a sound like that in years,” she said. “I knew about the nightmares, but this…” She tilted her head back, examining the ceiling as if she would find the answers there. “What was I thinking? He’s not some parcel to be neatly stored until delivery. He needs—”

“He needed you, Phryne love,” Jack said gently. “That’s why it’s you sitting here and not Mrs. Collins. She saw a child, you saw the trauma; not everyone would have been equipped to deal with it.”

Phryne barked a short laugh and shook her head.

“I wasn’t equipped to deal with it, Jack, I was just the only one there.”

“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

She reached out and laced her fingers through his.

“Either way,” she said dryly, “it’s going to be awhile before I can face cherry jam again.”


	9. Chapter 9

In the immediate aftermath of what Phryne ironically called The Cherry Jam Incident, very little seemed to change. Anthony slept that afternoon and through the night, and when Jack greeted him the next morning before breakfast the child reacted with the same cheerful alacrity as always. But there were signs, so subtle Jack was uncertain whether they had been present all along and he had simply not noticed, where it was clear that he was not as well as he first seemed. He shied from strangers, becoming mute and retreating to the nearest familiar adult; his hold on Cleopatra was fierce and unrelenting, and when Dot attempted to remove it at the breakfast table he fell silent and absent until Jack returned the toy; they needed to coax him into engaging with games he had previously sought out.

On Sunday night, another family dinner over and the guests gone home, they were ensconced in the parlour. Phryne shook her head.

“I almost miss the climbing,” she said.

“Give it time,” said Jack.

“That’s easy for you to say; you’ve been working all day. The boy spent most of the day trailing after me, one hand firmly gripping my trouser leg.”

Jack was surprised that she had tolerated such behaviour, but perhaps she had felt that she had no other choice. He extended his arm against the back of the chaise, and she moved to sit against him.

“I suppose this puts a rather large damper on Tuesday’s night away?” she said wistfully.

His fingers tickled the back of her neck and she laughed lightly. He had, in all the commotion, completely forgotten about the night he had booked before Anthony’s arrival.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

“Dot said she’d stay with him here. Hugh’s working an extra shift—I think they might be eyeing a larger house soon, with a third bedroom, though she hasn’t said anything yet—and says it would be no trouble, but that was before…. Well, I’m not sure it’s fair on poor Dot to take on that unknown.”

“Especially not if we’re two hours away,” Jack added.

“Remind me again why I thought this was a good idea?”

“Because you went in with incomplete information and a good heart, Miss Fisher.”

She sighed contentedly and wrapped her arm around his waist.

“And you, inspector, love me too well to point out when I am foolish.”

“If I did that, I’d get nothing else done,” he teased. “It’s simple self-preservation.”

“Of course,” she said, too solemnly to be serious. “But about these other demands that you have on your time?”

If he had ever thought that a secure relationship would be enough to make him less distracted by that look in her eyes, he had been a naive fool. The hand caressing his thigh wasn’t helping matters either.

“Upstairs,” he said in a near growl, and she laughed.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll carry you up myself.”

Phryne draped herself against the chaise, languidly wanton.

“Do your worst, Jack.”

Never one to back down from a challenge, he was out of the seat and scooping her up in an instant. She laughed as he mounted the stairs and carried her through to the boudoir; once inside he placed her on her feet. Her hands curled around his lapel, a pleased look on her face; and damn it all, that look of peaceful love was stronger than every lustful gaze put together, and from the smirk on her lips she knew it.

“If that’s your worst, I look forward to seeing your best,” she said, stroking down the front of his vest as she swayed.

It was the work of a moment to stumble them both towards the bed and make an attempt.

 

———

 

Phryne was gently shook awake on Monday, and she promptly rolled over and attempted to ignore the sensation.

“Phyne, love, I have to get to the station.”

“I,” she said as imperiously as she could when her mouth felt full of cotton and a sated contentment filled her body from the night before, “have no such commitments.”

Jack laughed, a deep and utterly at ease sound she was still surprised by.

“I had a thought, about tomorrow.”

She hummed inquisitively in response.

“I’ll reschedule the cottage, because you’re right about that. But if Mrs. Collins is still happy to watch Anthony, we can look somewhere closer to home. It’s only for a night, after all.”

Still half asleep, she attempted to mull it over as Jack finished dressing. It was a good solution, really. And the idea of escaping, even for the evening, certainly appealed; she was still getting nowhere on the aunt. She’d found someone who knew the woman and given her more information, but progress was absurdly slow, and Phryne had other investigations—she’d begun to take on other cases once more, unwilling to suspend her business indefinitely—and she was beginning to think that Welfare would have a foster spot open up long before she had answers. But getting those answers had become a matter of professional pride. The point remained, a night away from small children and the case—ugh, and now she was back to irritated about that. Definitely a night away.

“I’ll speak with Dot,” she said, rolling over and pulling the blankets up. “Later. At a reasonable time of day.”

She heard Jack mutter a curse beneath his breath, and she sat upright to regard him with one elegantly raised eyebrow.

“Dropped my cufflink,” he explained, eyes scanning the floor.

“Is that it? Just under the table?” she asked.

He bent over, giving her a perfect view of his arse, and she thanked gods she didn’t believe in that he hadn’t put his jacket on yet.

“Found it,” he said, still in position.

“Mmm, I think I might have dropped an earring there the other day…” she said lightly. “If you want to keep looking.”

“Which one?”

“The…dangly ones with rubies?” she fibbed, cursing herself for her inability to lie to those close to her.

Jack clearly caught her tone, because he stood immediately and gave her a chastising look.

“You can’t blame a girl for trying, Jack,” she pouted.

He strode over to the bed, kissed her goodbye, then paused and shook his head without saying a word before heading out the door. Spoilsport.

When she went downstairs two hours later, she found Mrs. Bowen watching Anthony and the Collins children—Dot’s mother was visiting a relative out of town, so Dot had taken to bringing the children with her whenever possible—as Dot attended to some darning. Phryne explained the situation, and Dot gave her a rather firm look.

“Miss, of course I’ll watch him. The children and I have been looking forward to it,” she said, and Phryne wondered exactly how she could tell when the most coherent statement she’d ever heard out of any of them was Aggie’s desperate ‘ _Help ‘e mum_ ’ when she’d gotten herself stuck somewhere.

“And of course I’ll be around tomorrow as well,” Mrs. Bowen added, coming into the kitchen to prepare the children a morning snack.

They had been vague about Anthony’s incident, merely saying that he had taken ill and was still recovering, but Phryne trusted that the woman would do her best. She had known him the longest, after all. And it was not as if Phryne and Jack would be unreachable. Satisfied that that aspect of the plans were under control, she left the room to make some telephone calls.

 

———

 

Coming home that evening, Jack was surprised to be greeted by a small blur barreling around the corner at full speed; Anthony stopped up short when he saw Jack, their eyes meeting. Then there came footsteps and Mrs. Collins calling after him, and he giggled and ducked to hide behind Jack’s legs.

As Mrs. Collins came into sight she brushed flour off her hands.

“Anthony! Leave the inspector alone. It’s time for dinner.”

Anthony squealed with laughter and attempted to climb up Jack’s coat. Jack picked him up, shifting him to his hip and giving the boy a stern look.

“Are you giving Mrs. Collins trouble, Ant?”

“Noooo!” the boy giggled, shaking his head. Then he reached towards Jack’s head. “Hat?”

Before Jack could redirect him, Anthony had snagged his hat and stuck it on his own head. The resulting pride on his face was enough to make Jack and Dot both laugh, which egged him on.

“Well, I’m glad to see your mood has improved,” Jack said. “Good evening, Mrs. Collins.”

“Evening, inspector,” she said, reaching out to take Anthony; Jack took back his hat once he was safely in Dot’s arms.

“Did Miss Fisher—”

Dot nodded.

“All arranged,” she said brightly. “I’ll just take Anthony through to the kitchen with the other two. Miss is in the study.”

Jack nodded his thanks, then hung his coat and hat up and headed to the small study where Phryne kept the documentation for her cases and her finances—it had surprised him to discover the neat and precise filing system that seemed to run contrary to her very nature; she had laughed and called it the high price to pay for freedom and he’d felt ashamed of his assumptions. Phryne was generous and spent freely, but never frivolously. Still, it was the most austere and unused room in the house, and that was in a house with three guest rooms.

When he peeked into the study, Phryne was sitting at the small desk with her head in her hand as she studied papers before her.

“Shut the door, Jack,” she said without looking up.

“I think Mr. Butler’s about to serve dinner,” he offered, stepping inside and doing as instructed.

She looked up then, blinking tiredly.

“Already?”

Jack nodded, crossing the small room to stand beside her and began to massage her neck. “Still no luck on Betty?”

“The three sisters spent a lot of time in various foster homes, so I’m trying to figure out where they were at any given time and whether she’s still in contact with the families. It requires far more paperwork than my usual investigations,” she sighed, shaking her head. “And the _telephone calls_ —if I talk to one more outback equivalent of my Aunt Prudence I might just scream; I really do not care that your cousin’s Jimmy’s girl once knew a Betty Rickon, honestly.”

“Do you want me to go through some of it tonight?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I want to use these files to start a fire in the parlour, lock the doors, and have my wicked way with you.”

“I’m not sure that’s entirely feasible,” replied Jack, feeling a smile tug on the corners of his mouth. “But Mrs. Collins has agreed to our amended plans, and I can think of other ways to start a fire.”

Smirking at the implication, Phryne adopted her most innocent tone. “Dot, as I may have mentioned once or twice, is a treasure. Whatever I did to earn her loyalty I will never know.”

Jack snorted. “I imagine the defending her from a murder accusation and then giving her gainful employment and your friendship might have helped.”

Phryne hummed in agreement, giving the papers in front of her another glance before pushing it all into a folder.

“Well, I suppose the bright side is that tomorrow I will have twenty four hours where I can utterly forget this whole affair,” Phryne said lightly.

Standing and turning to perch on the edge of her desk, she looked at Jack with slow deliberation. He had put a moratorium on snogging in his office after an incident where he went to a meeting with the Chief Commissioner with lipstick on his collar and Phryne’s knickers in his pocket; two days later she had replaced the small writing table that had previously been in the study with a solid oak desk. She maintained that it was a complete coincidence.

“Dinner,” he reminded her, stepping closer to kiss her in greeting. “And afterwards we have to figure out where we’re making our escape.”

“Oh, that’s already sorted,” she smiled. “It’s no holiday cottage in Lorne, but a suite at the Windsor will have to do. And possibly dancing—I haven’t been out in ages.”

Jack returned her smile, trying not to be annoyed. Between work and Anthony’s nightmares—improving but still wearying—he had been looking forward to the quietness of a secluded cottage, not a night of debauchery on what would inevitably be Phryne’s accounts. Still, she was right; with the situation as it was it had been nearly a month since they’d gone out for his birthday. And really, the actual point was to be together.

“That, my love, sounds like a perfectly acceptable compromise.”

 

———

 

Checking in the Windsor the following afternoon, Phryne declared that the first order of business was to verify the suitability of the bed, followed by a hot bath. Jack began unpacking the bag instead; Phryne wandered out of the bedroom and into the sitting room, trying not to roll her eyes at his fastidious nature. It was, perhaps, why she let her guard down long enough that she was surprised by his quiet approach only seconds later; there was a brush against her neck and she shrieked and found herself in his arms.

“Mmm, this seems familiar,” she purred, heart still pounding, once she realised what had happened.

“No journalists this time,” he replied, the somewhat sheepish grin on his face a sufficient apology for the fright.

“You’re still my ball boy. How goes the unpacking?”

“I continue to marvel at all the necessities you insist upon bringing,” he said with an amused shake of his head. “But perhaps you might have a point about the bed.”

“Oh yes?”

“Oh yes,” he said, his voice raspy. “I sat on it. Hideously uncomfortable. Might keep me up all”—a kiss to her shoulder—“night”—her neck—“long.”—the spot behind her ear that made her knees go weak every time; thankfully, for the last one, his hands were still holding her steady.

They didn’t make it to the bed, but Phryne was quite content to vouch for the comfort of the chaise. And the bathtub was divine.  

She dressed carefully for dinner, shooing Jack out of the room for maximum impact. The dress was new, a gorgeous aubergine number with a floor-length skirt, asymmetrical neckline, and silver sash. And a slit up the skirt that made all sorts of things possible. She’d need to change if they did end up dancing somewhere disreputable, but dear heavens above it felt glorious against her skin. And Jack looked suitably impressed—that was, his mouth opened slightly and he didn’t say a word—so it was a success all around; she did so _like_ to make an impression. Taking his offered arm, they went down for dinner.

Two hours later they were back in the suite, plans to go out dancing forgotten somewhere between the tired look in his eyes—he was stupidly proud and unlikely to say a word against the plans, but she had not been born yesterday—and the delicious way his hand slipped from his lap onto hers beneath the table, his long, calloused fingers and blue eyes promising all sorts of salacious things even as the rest of him was the height of propriety. So they were back upstairs, his hand beneath her skirt before the door shut behind them.

“So the—” a gasp, a sigh. “The burglar is targeting—yes, there darling—targeting couples with marital problems?”

A kiss, desperate and hot.

“It’s the only—damnit, turn around so I can see the buttons—only connection we can find, and it’s tenuous at—” a satisfied groan as her mouth found his again.

The dress slipped to the flooring, eliciting another groan that quickly became a whimper as she cupped him through his trousers. She chuckled, squeezed lightly; he started working on the truly hideous number of buttons that came between them.

“Divorce?”

The slightest shake of his head, his mouth too full to speak. Good grief, the attention that man lavished upon her breasts; she gripped his hair, tugged him slightly towards the bedroom. They were both naked by the time they made it, and their resulting grins were hungry and wolfish. They had lost the train of conversation but neither was ready to admit defeat, and so possibilities were slipped between kisses and discarded just as easily.

His hands spanning her hips, he walked her backwards until she sprawled across the bed; his eyes met hers, waiting for her sign—she hooked her legs around his waist and pulled him in. Enough foreplay.

“Good god, woman,” he panted when they were both satisfied, his head resting against her breastbone. “I’m pretty sure I saw the nature of the universe.”

She laughed, tugged him upwards for a soft kiss.  

“I did have a sudden insight into the case,” he murmured when they broke apart.

“Glad to see your attention was on the matter at hand,” she replied, laughing again as he reached up to cup her breast.

“Oh, my attention is always on the matter at hand. But I need to make a telephone call before I prove it.”

She fell back dramatically against the pillows.

“The sacrifices I make for you, Inspector Robinson,” she sighed.

He grimaced and she regretted her words—it had been a bone of contention in his marriage, and she usually steered well clear of it. Closing the gap between them, Phryne traced the shape of his lips with her tongue and caressed his cheek.

“Go on, Jack,” she said quietly. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

His answer was a vaguely reprimanding scowl before pushing himself off the bed. She watched him walk out of the room still naked (and wasn’t that delightful) then heard him place two telephone calls from the other room. She couldn’t make out the words, but the deep tones—so quietly confident, so controlled, so fundamentally masculine—was enough to make her mind wander. He came back in a few minutes later, a lightness in his step.

“I take it your sudden insight was successful?”

“It was,” he said quietly, climbing into bed beside her. She moved closer to cuddle, not quite ready for another round. “Collins will have to chase it up in the morning, but it shouldn’t take long.”

“And it will look good on his record, if he decides to pursue promotion,” she pointed out mildly.

“That was a consideration, yes. But mostly I didn’t want to have to get out of bed at seven am to do it myself.”

She chuckled, trailed her finger across his bare chest.

“Mmm, yes. I’d be quite cross if you did.”

“I’m all yours until tomorrow afternoon,” he promised.

“And the other telephone call?” she asked, not quite certain why she was asking. “Squirrel all settled in?”

“Mrs. Collins continues to be an absolute treasure,” Jack said, a slow and lazy smile pulling at his lips.

“Good,” said Phryne. “That’s good.”


	10. Chapter 10

On the last Tuesday of November, Anthony woke up with a fever and a whine that could pierce ear drums. Jack was due at the station early, and by the time Mrs. Bowen arrived Phryne was just about ready to tear her hair out; the moment the woman walked into Wardlow Phryne headed upstairs to change and go shopping. She had intended to spend the day making yet more telephone calls—it seemed that every possible lead ended with two hours on the telephone to some backwater office or another, only to be told that they had nothing at all on an Elizabeth or a Betty Dixon—but the idea of overhearing the incessant cycle of pitiful whining and shrieking made it impossible.

Returning home mid-afternoon, Phryne found Anthony in a feverish sleep stretched across Mr. Butler’s lap.

“Sorry, miss,” he grimaced, shifting slightly as he attempted to peel potatoes. “Mrs. Bowen’s daughter took ill at school and she had to leave.”

“Thank you, Mr. Butler,” she said, moving Anthony into her arms so the poor man could go about his actual duties. “I suppose I should have arranged an alternative for such an eventuality.”

It had been over a month. She had not imagined that it could possibly take this long, and had not planned accordingly. She would have to telephone Welfare again; this was ridiculous.

“It was no trouble, miss,” Mr. Butler said, casting a fond look at the child in her arms. _That_ was happening more and more often, it seemed.

Feeling the heat coming off Anthony’s body even through her lace cardigan, Phryne sighed. She took him into the nursery and laid him in the bed, taking a quick assessment of his condition by rote. His lips looked slightly parched—he’d need a drink when he woke up, or she would need to wake him—and his cheeks were flushed, but he seemed otherwise well enough. The fever wasn’t high enough to warrant real concern, at least.

Phryne watched him for several minutes, making sure he was properly asleep.

As she moved to leave, his hand caught and held the hem of her shirt. She reached down to extract it and he screeched, still asleep; her stomach clenched at the sound, unable to forget his terror nearly two weeks before. Tantrums were one thing, but this... she sat back onto the bed, intending to sit there until he was fully settled and she could make her escape, and sighed as she brushed the slightly damp curls from his face. This was a life she had rejected; watching him, lips moving even as he snored, his breath hot and sickly sweet with illness, Phryne knew it was not a choice she had ever doubted. She settled in to wait, and he whimpered again at the shifting mattress.

“Get some sleep, Squirrel,” she said, checking his temperature with her wrist once more.

 

———

 

_They were in bed, spooned together. Phryne took a deep breath and released the words that had been threatening to spill forth for days into the darkness of the room._

_“I’m pregnant.”_

_She wondered if he realised that he’d splayed his hand across her stomach protectively the minute she had said it. He didn’t say anything._

_“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” he said after several minutes of silence. “I know you’re hardly going to see a Butcher George type, but it’s still dangerous.”_

_His words surprised her._

_“Jack?” she asked._

_“I’m not sure what you expect me to say,” he said, his voice tight but not as tight as she had expected. “We both know what the outcome is going to be.”_

_“Yes, but I expected there to be discussion before we reached that conclusion.”_

_In her opinion, the fact that she had even considered this a discussion to be_ **_had_ ** _said a great deal about the security of their relationship._

_“If you were questioning whether this was something you wanted, I would be the first to tell you that you would be an excellent mother. You’re compassionate and caring and incredibly adept, Phryne,” he said, kissing her shoulder lightly. “But it’s not, is it? You’re questioning whether I could forgive this, and that’s not the same thing at all.”_

_He was right. He generally was, or at least as often as she was. It still didn’t sit right with her though, and she rolled over to see his face. His eyes were tinged with sadness, but he seemed sincere. He smiled at her, the silly lopsided smile that she loved so much._

_“Phryne love, there was a time I wanted a child very much. So much that it physically ached. But it was a long time ago;_ **_I made my peace with it_ ** _a long time ago. And I rather like how my life has turned out,” he paused to nuzzle her neck.  “I share a bed with a beautiful woman who keeps me on my toes. We’re happy and in love, and if we decide we want to go away for a weekend with no warning we can. We can stay in bed all day if we choose. We can get drunk of French champagne and kisses for any reason that springs to mind. We can curl up on opposite ends of the chaise and read our own books for hours, or putter in the garden, or steadfastly ignore the other one because we’re in a foul mood and not have it be a problem. There’s nothing to forgive.”_

_“Jack…”_

_He pulled back and looked at her sternly._

_“Nothing to forgive. But please, please be careful. And take Mac with you if you can, or your red raggers if you can’t.”_

_“Not you?”_

_His lips quirked._

_“I usually find it best to claim plausible deniability when it comes to your more illicit activities.”_

_“You are the dearest man,” she said, moving closer to kiss him._

_“Dearest?” he asked in mock horror. “Is that all?”_

_“Among other things,” she smirked, rolling him onto his back and straddling him. “You’re also rather charming, loyal, incredibly handsome, and terribly,_ **_terribly_ ** _persuasive.”_

_He gave her a slow smile. “Persuasive as well?”_

_“Well, no other man’s been able to even tempt me into domestic felicity, yet here I am.”_

_His smile widened, and she thought her heart might just fly out of her chest._

_“I can live with that.”_

 

———

 

Jack was quiet as he entered the house, aware that Anthony had been ill that morning and hoping not to wake him. Heading towards the kitchen for a drink, he was met by Phryne as she slipped from the nursery, a grimace on her lips.

“Still unwell?” Jack asked, and she nodded her head.

“Unfortunately,” she said, coming closer and giving him a brief kiss before sighing. “Also unfortunately, Mrs. Bowen’s girl fell ill as well, so I’ve sat with him for the last… oh, four hours? It was better than the screeching, at least.”

“I can imagine,” Jack said amicably, remembering the time they’d visited Rosie’s sister when all five of her children had been recovering from the flu. The tandem whining had been enough to give him a headache.

They went into the kitchen together, and sat at the table for a cup of tea while they discussed the day. Jack’s cup was almost empty when a loud wail came from the hall, and he saw Phryne tense.

“I’ll get him,” Jack said quietly. “This isn’t exactly what you agreed to, in the beginning, and I know it’s not…”

“Not what?” she asked, a little more defensively than he would have anticipated.

“It’s not what you agreed to, that’s all.”

She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. “I have nursed a lifetime’s worth of men in worse situations than a fever, Jack Robinson. Just because I don’t want children doesn’t mean I’m incapable.”

“We both know that you’re more than _capable_ , Phryne. That doesn’t mean you want to do it, and I thought you would appreciate the chance not to.”

She pushed out of her seat and poured a glass of water, then set it on the table.

“He’ll want that,” she said crossly.

Uncertain of what exactly had transpired to offend her so, Jack picked up the drink and headed towards the nursery. Anthony was lying spread-eagled on top of the doona, weeping and still half asleep. Jack settled beside him, helping him sit up enough to wet his lips; the boy seemed to perk up at the cool drink, and quickly drank the rest of the glass and looked around for more.

“In a moment, Ant,” Jack soothed as the boy crawled into his lap and pulled his arms around Jack’s neck.

Realising that he would not extract himself from the vice-like grip any time soon, Jack moved to the chair; it would be more comfortable than sitting on the edge of the bed, at least. Anthony whimpered at the move, but quickly resettled. A few minutes later, Phryne peeked through the door.

“How’s the squirrel?” she asked, coming inside.

“Asleep again,” Jack whispered back, then held up the glass. “Could I get some more, please?”

She nodded, taking the glass with one hand and pressing the other against Anthony’s forehead. She clucked, and there was a look of tenderness on her face that Jack hadn’t expected. She was worried, he realised; he wasn’t exactly sure why he was surprised. She’d been the one to take Anthony in, after all, and accepted the unexpected length of the arrangement without complaint. It was not a situation she would have chosen, but Phryne was remarkably good at coping with the hand that was dealt.

Jack sighed as she walked out the door, suddenly understanding her earlier irritation. She hadn’t enjoyed being the one to handle the care, but it had given her something to do besides wait for the fever to break. She hated waiting, especially when she felt responsible for the outcome. When Phryne returned, she carried the glass of water and a book for Jack.

“I think I’ll call Mac, see if she can stop by and take a look at him,” she said quietly. “Just in case.”

Jack nodded.

“That might be best,” he replied. Anything to avoid the silent, impotent waiting.  

 

———

 

“Do you ever regret it?”

He was almost asleep when she spoke, and his mind was foggy. It had been nearly one in the morning when he had stumbled to bed; Anthony’s fever had broken and the child was finally sleeping comfortably, just as Mac had predicted.

“Regret what?” he asked in confusion.

“The…” she trailed off, then sighed. He heard her hair against her pillow as she shook her head. “No, it’s bigger than just that. Do you ever regret choosing someone who wouldn’t give you it?”

In his half-asleep state, he found he couldn’t follow.

“Give me what?”

“A babe of your own. A happy family.”

He opened his eyes, found her staring at him with a look of such vulnerability on her face that his heart ached. He reached out, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, then pulled her close.

“ _You_ are my family, Phryne. You and Jane. Mum. Ivy. The Collinses. Your red-raggers and your Aunt Prudence, in a pinch.”

She huffed a small laugh against his chest. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know, love.”

Her fingers reached out to lace through his, pulled their clasped hands close to her breast. “Jack?”

“Not for a moment.”

“But today, this whole time really, with Anthony…you’ve been so—”

“Not for a moment,” he asserted. “If that was what I wanted, I had the chance; I chose you, before I was ever certain that you would choose me. And how could I regret _this_? This is…this is so far beyond my wildest imaginings.”

She hummed and nodded, pressing her face against him; she shuddered once, her fingers reflexively grasping to keep him close.  

“I love you,” she said softly.

He pressed a kiss against her hair.

“I love you too. Now get some sleep.”

After a moment, she pulled back with a glint in her eyes that promised trouble.

“Wait, when did you have a chance?”

He gave a half-smile. “I thought you preferred a never-ending source of mystery?”

Phryne’s eyes narrowed, clearly remembering when she had said as much.

“It was that lovely Italian woman, wasn’t it? Concetta?”

“Yes. She proposed marriage—”

“And you declined?”

“I didn’t have a chance, in the end, but I intended to. I could not be the husband she deserved when my heart was elsewhere, even if nothing came of it.”

“And that was the first time you decided to make do.”

There was an edge to her voice, but he really was not awake enough to analyse it. Cajoling seemed the safest response.

“Phryne, sweetheart, darling, love of my later years, sun and moon and all the stars in the sky—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Jack,” she laughed, but there was still an unsettled look in her eyes.

He let the teasing smile slip from his face, allowed her to see the utter sincerity behind his next words.

“Phryne, you have never been ‘making do’, not ever,” he said confidently, remembering their tentative agreement over a bottle of wine from Strano’s to do just that. An minor amendment, perhaps. “Except in that vague sort of way that is true in every relationship. Would you call me making do?”

“No!”

“But you’ve had to compromise, haven’t you?”

She nodded, slightly petulant.

“See, making do. I told you then and I will repeat it now: I most likely would have been perfectly happy if children had come along with Rosie. But not having them with you… that’s not a sacrifice, it’s not a compromise, it’s just what works for us. _Both_ of us. That’s enough. It’s everything, really.”

She sighed once more, whatever was bothering her clearly appeased.

“It’s everything,” she agreed, wrapping her arm around him and falling asleep almost instantly.

———

 

_Jack was not pacing the parlour, despite his expectations. He was, however, sitting as near the door at possible and only half aware of the book he was reading. He’d already jumped once, when the telephone rang. Mr. Butler had answered it, of course; they were still maintaining the illusion that Wardlow was not his residence. He’d let out the house as an extra source of income and purchased a small flat as his official address, even though he’d spent maybe half a dozen nights there in the year since he’d moved in; one paid for the other with plenty to spare, and it saved too many questions. Worth it for the peace of mind alone._

_There was a knock on the parlour door frame, and Mr. Butler came through with a tray of tea._

_“That was Miss Fisher, sir. She’s says she’s on her way home and, I quote, ‘to tell Jack to stop fretting’.”_

_Jack gave the servant a tight smile._

_“Thank you, Mr. Butler.”_

_“A pleasure, sir,” Mr. Butler replied, which Jack had learnt was the man’s subtle way of conveying support._

_Pouring himself a cup of tea, Jack turned back to the novel. He still couldn’t bring himself to pay the plot any attention, and eventually sat it aside to drink his tea and think. He’d been sincere in his approval of the plan, on the first night and on the other occasions in the intervening week. Pregnancy was not necessarily a straightforward event when you wanted it; after Rosie had… well, they’d had to burn the mattress after the last time, when they’d actually begun to believe it might come to something, and it had been the death knell to their intimacy. The idea of inflicting it upon someone unwillingly was abhorrent. It was not quite the same as wishing for the alternative, though; he supposed that some part of him had harboured hopes of a change in heart. Still, it was a passing fancy in what was agreement; appealing in abstract but ultimately not. A child would have been a significant upheaval in a peaceful life. Well, peaceful was perhaps the wrong word to describe any life with Phryne Fisher as part of it. Content. Delighted._

_He heard someone at the door and turned, expecting to see Mr. Butler retrieving the tea things. It was Phryne, looking unusually tired._

_“Miss Fisher!”_

_She grinned at him. “Hello Jack! One of these days I will scold you for that, you know.”_

_She was referring to his habit of reverting to Miss Fisher at the slightest surprise; she was Phryne at home, most of the time._

_“You love it really,” he replied, setting down his teacup. “I didn’t hear you come in?”_

_“Kitchen,” she said in way of explanation, coming over and dropping into his lap._

_“Ahh,” he said. “Did everything…?”_

_“Without a hitch.”_

_“Good. Good.”_

_She laid her head against his shoulder, running a hand through his hair._

_“I’ve been thinking about your flat,” she said idly._

_“Yes?”_

_“If we were to_ **_claim_ ** _elopement, nobody would need to see the paperwork. I would have to have my solicitor draw up papers for the legal side of things, but I think most of those were already done when I updated my will last year.”_

_He considered it. It could work, really. His mother would probably approve, actually; Mairi Robinson had an ornery streak a mile wide and a fondness for pointing out that her own parents had been married with a child before official records had them as such. Something about a particularly harsh winter and no minister coming to their tiny hamlet for some time. And Ivy could take the flat and save on housing fees, if she was interested.  
_

_“You aren’t suggesting this as some sort of twisted apology, are you? I’ve already said—”_

_“No!” she exclaimed, sitting upright to look him in the eye. “No, never. I would_ **_never…_ ** _This whole situation just had me thinking. I know you’re never actually there, but the fact that it exists is unfortunate whenever I think of it.”_

_“You, my darling Miss Fisher, are a force unto yourself.”_

_“I think it’ll have to be Fisher-Robinson, at least socially,” she said lightly, though he knew what such a concession would cost her._

_“Oh, I believe that you’ll always be Miss Fisher to me.”_

_“Does that mean you intend to make a dishonest woman out of me, Jack?”_

_He kissed her, then murmured against her lips, “Repeatedly.”_


	11. Chapter 11

After a long weekend of rest and fluids and a truly obnoxious number of readings about gumnut babies—Jack seriously contemplated breaking out Shakespeare if only to give his ears a rest, until Phryne rather amusedly pointed out that Puck was not exactly the sort of role model they wanted the boy to emulate before retreating once more—Anthony was on the mend and Jack was never happier to see his office. A situation that was quite happily maintained until he was called to the scene of a suspicious death at just gone three; the initial investigation would take him a good chunk of the evening, a fact that would not have bothered him a few months earlier. He sighed, determined to stop by Wardlow—it was only a short detour on his way back to the station—for some dinner, even if it was just some cold meats and a salad packed in a picnic basket. Better than the pie cart, at least, and if it gave him a chance to see a friendly face, well… there had been easier investigations than a young man who appeared to have died from an opium overdose, and a friendly face would not go amiss.

“I’ll meet you at the station in an hour, Mitchell,” he said to his newest constable. “Ask around, see if there is anybody in the area who knew our victim, then get a ride back with Collins.”

The lanky man nodded; he was coming along in leaps and bounds as a police officer. Jack headed towards the police car, then drove the short distance home; he headed around the side, thinking that if he went through the kitchen he could catch Mr. Butler  and arrange for the basket before anything else. The plan was waylaid by the sound of shouting followed by Anthony running towards him, Dot and the Collins children close behind.

“Unc’ Sir! Unc’ Sir!” shouted Aggie, and Anthony ran at full speed straight into Jack’s arms.

“Oof, hello!” Jack said, swinging him up.

“Dat! Dat!”

Jack looked around, trying to see what had excited him so, and found nothing.

“That what, Ant?” he asked.

“Nooo, no dat!” he said, his little face screwed up in concentration. “Dack? Dack! Dack hat! Me hat?”

Anthony seemed to have a particular affinity for Jack’s fedora, and Jack passed it over. It tilted rather adorably over his eyes, so all that was left was the edge of his curls and his mouth and defiant little chin. The brim of the hat bumped against Jack’s cheek as Anthony leaned in to give him a kiss, causing Jack to wonder—just briefly, and with Phryne’s recent concerns bringing it to mind—what it would have been like to be greeted by his own child. Not, he supposed, like this; he gave his head a shake. Idle speculation, that was all.

“Evening, Mrs. Collins,” he said. Remembering Phryne’s recent insinuation, he gave her a quick glance—her cheeks were slightly rosier than usual, but that could easily be explained by an afternoon spent out of doors with three young children. “I’m afraid Hugh might be late home this evening, but I’ll try not to keep him for too long. I’m just stopping by for dinner.”

“Of course, inspector. If you can spare ten minutes, I can run home and organise some food for him?”

“Don’t go through any trouble, Mrs. Collins. Somehow I expect that Mr. Butler will pack enough for myself, Hugh, and Constable Mitchell with plenty to spare.”

“In that case, I might head home,” Dot smiled. “Aggie and Theo need their baths before they fall asleep. We’ve had a very busy day, haven’t we children?”

Theo stuck his fist in his mouth, and Aggie began to dance. Anthony gripped harder to Jack before nodding solemnly, so sweetly shy that Jack couldn’t help but chuckle. Dot cocked her head slightly, watching the boy.

“He’s the queerest little child,” she said. “He’s darling, don’t get me wrong, but he’s so…”

“Solemn?”

“Lost,” Dot replied. “Not always, but there’s a look in his eyes. Perhaps it’s just my own fancy.”

“He’d certainly struggle to live up to Miss Agnes and her confidence,” Jack said with a laugh, motioning the girl with his head. She was dancing and applauding and dancing again, a whirling dervish of energy Jack was happy to see and even happier to see off home.  “But he’s been so quietly resilient through this whole ordeal…”

Jack trailed off, not quite sure what to say. Anthony was a sweet boy, but Dot was right—he was a slightly odd little duck, shaped by the circumstances in his life.

“I would never say this to Miss Phryne,” Dot confided, “but I am glad she took him in, for his sake. I just wish… I just wish it wasn’t this long. It will be another upheaval for him now.”

Jack nodded, knowing that she was right. But what other option had there been, in the end?

“I’ll let you get dinner now,” Dot said; she still worried about overstepping her place, and seemed to think her confession was beyond the bounds of their relationship. She turned to the boy still in Jack’s arms and smiled warmly. “Goodbye, Anthony! I will see you tomorrow.”

And with that she clucked rather like a mother hen, gathering her two and heading down the path towards the street. Jack shook his head again and carried Ant indoors. He exchanged a few words with Mr. Butler before heading to the hall, taking his hat from Anthony and placing it on a peg.

“Shall we go find Miss Fisher now?” he asked, and Anthony nodded.

“Mims! Mims?” Ant called out, moving into the parlour before stopping short. “Where Mims? Where?”

Jane was on the chaise reading a novel, and looked up.

“Miss Phryne’s not here,” she said curtly. “She was supposed to take me shopping, but she’s off tracking down a lead on Anthony’s case.”

She tried to hide the bitterness in her tone, but Jack was too experienced at interviews to believe it. Jane had managed to live in the same house as Anthony while rarely interacting with him, a fact that Jack had noticed but dismissed as her burgeoning adulthood leaving her to forge out an identity separate from the family. He wondered if it had been something more and he had overlooked it.

“Jane?” he asked, and she huffed loudly.

“She telephoned and said she’d be home in half an hour, but she was _supposed_ to be home by three. I need new clothes before I start university, and she—” Jane stopped, as if unwillingly to voice that she wanted her foster mother there. “I needed a drive to the shops.”

It was a weak cover, but Jack let it lie.

“And she said it was about Ant’s case?”

“I presume so,” Jane said scathingly, marking her place in her book and looking up at them properly. “He is her current project, after all.”

While Jack had never been a teenaged girl, he remembered all too well the feeling when he had left his childhood home to attend the police academy. A sort of stubborn independence mixed with the occasional urge to crawl back home and be told that life was black and white, all the while knowing that it would never be the same even if he did. It was no doubt worse for Jane, who had spent so much of her life without a family to go home to.

“It’s not a project.”

“That’s what Phryne does though, isn’t it?” Jane scoffed. “Takes some stray in because she feels sorry for them?”

“Jane…” Jack sighed, realising the crux of the matter. “There are some similarities to how you came under Phryne’s care, I will admit. But don’t ever doubt that Phryne loves you. And I highly suspect that she would much rather have gone shopping with you then chase down yet another tenuous lead, but sometimes our jobs come first.”

Jane blushed, as if giving tentative voice to her worries had been enough to realise how absurd they were.

“I know, Jack. I am sorry for being short with you,” she said. “It’s just that Miss Phryne is usually so good at keeping her word, and then she’s been so busy with the squirrel—”

“Not you too!”

Jane grinned cheekily at him. “Afraid so. He’s an utter nuisance. He’s also halfway up the bookshelf again….”

 

———

 

The house was dark by the time Jack returned home that night; he found Phryne staring at the fireplace, a fire taking the edge off of a surprisingly chilly summer evening.

“I thought you’d be home earlier,” she said quietly.

“Long day,” he asked, pouring himself a drinking and coming to sit in the armchair opposite her. “Did you speak with Jane?”

She nodded, still watching the flames.

“It went well?” Jack prompted, and when she looked at him he realised her eyes were wet with tears.

“She thinks… she thinks I was done with her,” she confessed. “Ready to push her out the door and find another charity case. How did I…”

The rest of her thought was left hanging in the air between them. _How did I go so wrong? How did I give her the impression that she was anything less than family?_

“She’s had people finish with her her entire life, by choice or circumstance,” Jack said. “Those scars don’t go away with a tour of the continent and good schools, or even love.”

She gave him a rueful smile, taking a sip of her drink to compose herself.

“I forget, sometimes, that she hasn’t always been here. Isn’t that silly?”

“She’s been a part of your family for nearly as long as you’ve been in Melbourne,” Jack pointed out.

“Our family,” Phryne corrected automatically, but her heart was not in it.

“Yours, at the time. Ours now,” he clarified with a small smile. “The point remains, she’s… Phryne, she’s _your_ daughter. She’s brave and fierce and utterly independent, but sometimes she forgets that she doesn’t need to go it alone. And, god help me, I wouldn’t love either of you half as much if you were anything else.”

“But?”

“No but. She needs you, and what that looks like is changing right now. So take her shopping tomorrow, even if it means leaving Anthony’s case an extra day, and just be there.”

“How did you get so…?” she waved her hand in the air, and for the first time he realised that she must have been drinking all evening. “With Jane, and with Squirrel. You just… you know how to do this. And I don’t. I just sort of muddle through.”

“Right,” Jack said, standing and taking her drink. He placed the cup on the mantelpiece and turned back to her. “You are far too melancholy for this conversation right now, love.”

“That’s not an answer, Jack,” she replied, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“I don’t,” he said simply. “I have the advantage of thinking before I act, but that’s it. There’s no magic word, no secret spell that gives you the answers.  Someone wise once told me that they weren’t equipped, they were just the only one there to deal with it.”

“That person was an idiot,” Phryne said curtly.

“Sometimes,” Jack said dryly.

“You’re not supposed to agree.”

There were times he could not follow her leaps of logic, and did not want to try.

“You know what, Phryne?” he snapped. “I love you. But it is late and I am tired and I had to tell a woman that her son died alone and anonymous and dumped in an alley because whatever opium den is responsible for his state didn’t want to be _held_ responsible. And I will no doubt be up at some point tonight because there is a lost little boy in your house for reasons I _still_ cannot fathom.”

“Our house,” she said quietly.

“Your house,” Jack countered. “Because you sure as hell didn’t think to confer with me about this.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t see you objecting when it was cute little lullabies and me being a model of domestic bliss.”

Jack barked a laugh. “Have you taken complete leave of your senses, or just partial?”

“I could ask you the same question, Jack. Because you were looking pretty comfortable playing happy families.”

“Is this what it is? You think I’m so bloody fickle that… what? I’ll—you know what, it doesn’t even matter. I cannot believe that you would think that _little_ of me.”

“I don’t think little of you,” she said, so quiet and hurt he felt the anger drain from him. “You could have had this. You would have been good at it. And instead you are _here_ , and I have to watch you discover a secret insecurity in my ward—one I wasn’t even aware existed—and smile at Squirrel, who seems to think you hung the moon, and just be so damned _good_ at it. And I’m never going to be that person who gives it to you, and you don’t even _blink_. You just accept it and move on and  it’s not fair. You’re supposed to have everything—”

What the hell was she going on about?

“Why? What possible good could everything be? Especially if it made you miserable?”

“Because you’re supposed to,” she said, pouting slightly.

“That might be the most ridiculous argument I’ve heard in a long time.”

She crossed her arms defiantly.

“Phryne…” he warned, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I love you. As we have already discussed ad nauseam, I knew your opinions on parenthood. I went into this relationship with the understanding that Jane would be the only child, and that she was too old to see me as a _father_.  If I in any way regretted it, I am an adult who is capable of raising the discussion. I do not need you to pander to some long-forgotten dream.”

“Is it really so forgotten?” she asked, astute as always.

Jack exhaled, feeling as if he’d been punched.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You’re drunk and I’m tired and I really do not think either one of us wants to have this conversation right now.”

“That’s a no, then.”

“Fine, it’s a no. I’m not wailing and beating my chest over it, but Anthony’s presence and our recent discussions has… reminded me that an alternative was there, however briefly. And that does not mean that I wish we had taken it, or that I am lamenting the lost opportunity, or that I am… what? Miserable? It’s a passing thought, that’s _it_. And you keep coming back at it, as if it will magically change if you poke it enough times, _and I don’t know what you’re looking for_.”

“I want you to be honest with me.”

“You don’t believe me when I am,” Jack said, resigned. “For whatever reason, you’ve already made up your mind about this. If you wanted an out—”

The words left his mouth without thought, and before he could apologise she was in front of him, eyes blazing.

“Don’t you bloody dare, Jack Robinson,” she said. “You don’t get to throw that at me.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. We have one little disagreement and you expect me to leave. Well, tough luck to you; I’m here and I have no intention of leaving, even if you are the single most frustrating man I’ve ever met.”

“ _I’m_ frustrating?” he repeated incredulously. “I came home to find you wallowing over who knows what and accusing me of—you know, I don’t even know what you’re accusing me of.”

“Competence,” she said scathingly. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Clearly,” replied Jack. “Because if you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place.”

“Well, fuck you too,” she said, turning on her heel and storming from the room. He watched her leave, uncertain what had just transpired.

 

———

 

Phryne thudded up the stairs, too furious to even think straight; choice epithets for Jack Robinson pounded through her mind at every step. That idiot. Bastard. Small-minded. Prig.  By the time she reached the bedroom she found the anger had…not passed, but changed. It was no longer the all-consuming blaze of indignation, but the slower burn of a deeper pain. Her head was swimming and she could no longer remember what had precipitated the fight—she’d been out of sorts when he’d come in and he’d been tired, but that was not unheard of and it had never exploded so spectacularly before—but she knew that storming off was not the solution.

Sighing, she headed back downstairs; she crossed paths with Jack on the landing. He’d clearly run his hands through his hair while she had been upstairs, a sure sign of his frustrations.

“Phryne—”

She raised her hand to silence him.

“No, Jack. I don’t want you to apologise and forget it.”

“What do you want?” he asked, and she loved and hated knowing that he would give her whatever she asked if it was in his power. She’d never been quite so good at that sort of selflessness, though it was not always an endearing trait.

“I want to talk this over when we’ve both had some sleep,” she said, reaching for his hand. It was so much larger than hers, but it never seemed to overwhelm.  “Come upstairs. Please.”

He nodded and followed her, his solid footsteps behind her a reassurance; they undressed themselves before slipping beneath the sheets, their fingers stretching out to lay laced between them.  

“Don’t… don’t expect me to leave, Jack,” she said quietly after several minutes of silence, uncertain if he was still awake. “Call me selfish, or frivolous, or whatever you like. I can stand that. But I can’t bear the thought of you…”

She could not complete the sentence. He squeezed her hand gently in acknowledgment, and she knew that whatever the morning’s argument brought, they would navigate it together.


	12. Chapter 12

When Phryne woke the early morning light was streaming through opened curtains, and she wondered if Mr. Butler had taken leave of his senses. Her head hurt far too much to deal with the sun.

“Jack?” she said, and waved her hand in the general direction of the window. “Could you…?”

From somewhere to her right he growled, but stumbled out of bed to comply. Then he checked that the alarm had not gone off and burrowed back under the blankets, making discontented noises the whole time. Phryne reached out and traced the line of his spine, pressing kisses against his shoulder blade.

“Sleep,” he said gruffly.

She settled against him. They would need to talk, she knew that, but for the moment it was enough to feel him warm and solid beneath her hands. Unable to fall back asleep, she tried to remember the previous night’s conversation; in the literal and metaphorical light of morning it was all much clearer.

Jane’s confession had blindsided her, and that had left her uncharacteristically contemplative. And Jack had been gone all evening, leaving her to put Anthony to bed and underscoring how very little she had done since she’d decided to bring him home. Of course Jack had stepped in; she hadn’t given him much of a choice. And instead of thanking him she had lashed out in fear. Fear that she had failed, that he would realise what he did not have, that she would somehow not be _enough_ for him. That had rankled: she was Phryne Fisher ( _Fisher-Robinson_ , amended a small voice, and she conceded that regardless of legal paperwork she had donned that moniker willingly), and she did not worry about being enough for anyone.

And as for Jack, unflappable Jack… well, he was always the sort to retreat and regroup and she hated that. He buried his valid complaints unless she prodded at them. If he didn’t like that, he shouldn’t have taken up with a detective. She chuckled a little at that thought, and he rolled over. His eyes looked almost grey in the dim lighting; they were so rarely the same colour twice.

“Are you not sleeping?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“I think we need to talk about last night.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Sorry and a sixpence will buy you a week of newspapers.”

“It wouldn’t, actually,” he said. “The Argus—”

“It was a turn of phrase,” she laughed, and his lips twitched in amusement. “I was…unfair. I was upset and it was easier to take it out on you.”

“It had to come out sometime,” he said. “But _neither_ of us was at our best last night.”

“And this morning?” she smirked, leaning over him to take an exaggerated glance at the alarm clock. “We have a whole hour before you have to get up.”

When he didn’t immediately object she rolled him onto his back, straddling him with a gleeful smile.

“Have it out, then reconcile?” she suggested, moving her hips in a slow circle.

He closed his eyes and groaned.

“I believe you have an unfair advantage right now,” he muttered.

“I’m sure you could think of some way to level the playing field,” she taunted, laughing as his hands found her hips to lift her up and roll her beneath him.

“Like that?” he asked, looking far too proud of his achievement.

She hooked her leg around the back of his thighs and thrust herself upwards in response.

“This isn’t having it out, Miss Fisher,” he growled.

“No, but it is more fun.”

“Phryne…”

She pulled his head down for a kiss, then released him with a careful caress of his cheek.

“I am sorry about last night. I was tired and frustrated and you are just so aggravatingly _competent_ at this. I’m not used to being bested.”

“Ahh,” he nodded, a smug smirk on his face making him utterly irresistible. She could no longer remember why she had doubted him. Them. “So this can all be traced back to your competitive streak?”

“That and your refusal to admit when you want something. It’s not hard, Jack. You spend so much time trying to do the right thing, to make everyone else happy. You are allowed to be selfish from time to time, even if nothing comes of it.”

“I am selfish,” he countered, his smirk becoming wry. “The problem is that our desires so often overlap that you think I’m not. You do tend to think me nobler than I actually am.”

“That does sound promising,” Phryne purred. “What sorts of things are you desiring right now? Perhaps my hand…right…there?”

He swallowed hard, which she took as permission to continue her explorations.

“Or here, perhaps?”

His eyes closed at the gentle sensation.

“Or maybe not my hand at all?” she suggested, undulating her hips against him, and he broke.

“Oh god, yes,” came his low growl as he pressed against her.

She laughed again, moving up to meet him, guiding him inside.

“You should be selfish more often,” Phryne grinned, scraping her nails down his back and appreciating the groan that rumbled through them both as she did so. “It’s positively delicious.”

 

———

 

Once Jack had left for work on Tuesday, Phryne had dressed and encouraged Jane to take the day off school—”It’s all revision, darling, and you’ve revised endlessly for the past month”—to go shopping. They’d had a marvelous time, and she had almost forgotten that she’d found nothing but yet another dead end in the investigation into Helen Fox’s family. There was no such freedom on Wednesday, but as she found herself waiting for returned telephone calls after lunch she decided that a chance to curl up with a good book while she did so was most welcome.

She had just reached a particularly engrossing part when Phryne felt the cushion beside her shift; she almost kicked out to dislodge whatever was there—the neighbour’s cat had a hideous habit of wandering into Wardlow every few months, and she hated the beast—but looked up from her book first; she was surprised to find Anthony beside her, mouth pressed into a tight line and his arms full of stuffed dog and the largest book in the nursery.

“Have you escaped from Mrs. Bowen?” she asked archly.

The boy gave her an utterly unamused look that would rival Jack’s, shifted back further into the seat by squirming, then laid the book on his lap and opened the cover. He couldn’t quite manage to turn individual pages, but he handled the book with a surprising amount of care as he pored over the illustrations. Phryne debated calling out for Mrs. Bowen; the woman had looked exhausted that morning though, her own children having had whatever malady had afflicted Anthony over the weekend, and sighed before returning to her own novel.

When Mr. Butler came in an hour later, Squirrel had wormed ever closer until he was pressed against her side entirely and had fallen asleep. She hadn't even noticed.

“Tea, Miss?” her unflappable butler asked, laying out the tea things so she could reach them without disturbing the child.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, shifting the book off of Anthony’s lap.

It was a collection of fairy tales, still open to the tale of Snow White; she trailed her hand across the beautiful watercolour illustration. She’d been fascinated by the story as a child herself, of a girl braving the harsh reality she found herself in; Phryne had had no intention of requiring the kindness of a woodsman to survive, but it had enthralled her nonetheless. It had even been her costume of choice for the first fancy dress ball she had been to after the war, and she hadn’t stopped wearing her signature red lipstick since. It was funny, she thought as she sipped her tea, the memories that came at unexpected moments.

She stayed there for another hour, glancing down from her book from time to time to watch Anthony sleep. She’d never noticed the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose before, or exactly how long and dark his eyelashes were. She ran her hand through his wayward curls, smiling a little at the way they sprang back. There really was something endearing about him. _A lost little boy_ , Jack had called him the other night, and she supposed he was right. She had always had a knack for finding waifs and strays. She stroked his hair once again and turned back to her book.

 

———

 

December 10th was a Saturday, which made Phryne’s usual plans for the evening easier. Every year she would go out on the 9th and return as late as possible, sleep through most of the day, and spend the evening alone. She could remember Janey other days—not always easily, but with less sorrow—but the anniversary of her abduction was too big a shadow to be obliterated. So she kissed Jack goodbye and left Wardlow with a deliberate sashay she knew did not deceive him, secure in the knowledge that his arms would hold her close in the brief time their sleep schedules overlapped but he would otherwise let it pass unremarked, and loved him all the more.

The party was wild and raucous and fun, and Phryne drank a little too much and laughed a little too loud, and came home just as the sun was rising. She’d stayed out later in years gone by, but the promise of a warm body in their bed drew her back to St. Kilda; she danced her way through the door, the music still thrumming in her head, dropping her fur stole as she headed towards the kitchen for a pre-bed snack. She was halfway there when she heard quiet sobbing, and followed the sound to the nursery.

It was Anthony, out of bed but too scared to leave the room. And it was probably the drink and the date and the way he clutched onto the dog like it was his only port in a storm, but her heart hurt for him.

“Hello Squirrel,” she said. “Have we had a bad dream?”

“Bad, bad Mims,” the boy whimpered, and Phryne stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed.

She patted the mattress beside her, and he quickly scrambled up.

“Lie down,” she commanded him gently, stroking his back when he complied. “There’s no bad dreams here now.”

She had told Janey the same thing many times, the two of them in one bed; as much as Phryne liked her bed spacious, the cramped quarters of her childhood were some of her fondest memories. Tears stung her eyes then, unable to forget that this was the day she had lost Janey; how Janey had leapt from their tiny bed that morning, singing some silly little song that was going around the neighbourhood, how they’d ducked beneath the canvas tent, how Phryne had watched the disappearing act and imagined it was their father only to turn and discover it was Janey instead.

Anthony whimpered, breaking her from her reverie, and she stroked his back again. The boy was almost asleep.

“There’s no bad dreams here,” she repeated, closing her eyes so the tears did not fall.

 

———

 

Waking up to an empty bed was no longer a familiar sensation, and it took Jack a moment to put his finger on the feeling. He was not greeted with Phryne’s usual soaps and perfumes, or the smoky scents that clung to her when she collapsed into bed after a night of dancing. He remembered the date a moment later and sighed; she always came in late, but usually before he woke up at least. She did not appreciate his sympathy—he’d offered, the first year, to take the day off until he discovered that it was an anniversary she preferred to mark alone—but it comforted him to know what she was at least safely ensconced in bed before he left for the day. Still, with any luck she’d be home before then.

He got out of bed, pulling on his robe, and headed downstairs. After needing to make a last minute change of clothes multiple times, he’d learnt to dress after breakfast while Anthony was in the house. It felt indulgent, but his practical side won out as it often did. Dot had agreed to watch Ant at the cottage for the day, and Jack needed to drop him off before heading to the station to catch up on paperwork.  

As he came down the stairs he saw one of Phryne’s wraps laid upon the banister; perhaps she’d come home and not made it upstairs. He softened his steps and headed towards the nursery, hoping that Anthony would remain quiet long enough for Jack to get him out the door without disturbing Phryne from wherever she’d dozed off. Entering the nursery, he stopped short. She was sitting on the bed, back against the wall, and fast asleep; Anthony laid beside her, her hand resting on his back. An unfamiliar feeling—he quickly realised it was longing and promptly dismissed it—made him pause in the doorway for just a moment.

He padded over, hoping to extricate Anthony without waking Phryne, but as the boy was shifted she stirred as if to soothe him.

"Just me," Jack whispered, and she opened her eyes.

"He was..." she raised her hands and then dropped them again, neither completely awake or completely sober. "He was up when I got in and there was no, no point in..."

"Of course, Miss Fisher," he said, and that seemed to cut through some of the fog in her mind.

"I only sat with him for a minute, just so he could go to—"

“Go to bed, Phryne. I’ll get Squirrel ready for Dot.”

She looked at him, still half asleep. “You called him Squirrel.”

“I did,” he confirmed with a small smile. “It’s still a ridiculous nickname.”

She sat for a minute longer, her hand resting on the boy once more.

“After Janey… after Janey disappeared, I had the most awful dreams,” she finally confessed. “Sometimes my mother would sit on my bed; I don’t know if she was trying to comfort me or convince herself that at least I was there. I thought maybe it would help."

Jack looked at the sleeping boy, utterly content and firmly holding on to the hem of Phryne's skirt with the hand not clutching his damned dog.

"I think it did," he said quietly. "Do you need help getting up the stairs?"

Even drunk and exhausted she had a look of contempt that would make grown men weep.

“I am slightly inebriated, Jack, not…very in—inebriated?” her brow furrowed at that, but she carried on. “I still have full use of my faculties.”

“And those faculties will take you up to bed and leave headache powders on the bedside table,” he ordered. “I’ll come in to dress, but I suspect you’ll be asleep by then.”

“Oh,” she sighed, scrunching her nose. “My Jack. So bossy.”

If she was laying claim to him, she was drunk indeed. He offered his hand to help her stand, and kissed her cheek when she did. Then she meandered out of the room and towards the back staircase, and Jack found himself staring at Anthony, who had managed to sleep through the entire conversation.

“Up we get, lad,” Jack said, picking him up. “You and I have an appointment with Mrs. Collins, and while I will happily risk the wrath of Miss Fisher, Dot Collins is another matter entirely.”

The boy looked at him, still half asleep, and yawned.


	13. Chapter 13

Early the next week, Phryne finally received a telephone call with the lead she had been waiting for. One of Betty Dixon’s foster mothers had kept in touch until the last few years, more recently than the decade-old address Phryne had been working from. The woman remembered that she had married a man named Thomas Mulroney, and they’d moved to a small town called Paringa on the Murray River. Phryne could not find any record of such a marriage in Victoria or South Australia, but she did find a reference to a Thomas Mulroney living in the area; it wasn’t an uncommon name, but enough to pique her interest. A telephone call to the local post office was less than helpful, and Phryne decided that the best thing to do would be to go to Paringa herself. If Betty Dixon was there, arrangements could be made for her to take Squirrel by the weekend.

There was a train station in the town, but Phryne quickly calculated that flying there was by far the more efficient option and informed Jack of her plans in the parlour before dinner.

“It should only be for a couple of days,” she said, prepared for him to point out that he had to work and it would be a logistical nightmare to cover Anthony’s care.

“Will you be back for Sunday dinner?” he asked instead. “Mum’s coming into town and she’d hate to miss you.”

“She’ll be here for three weeks, Jack. I’m sure she can survive my absence at a single meal.”

“Mmm,” he said. “That might even be for the best. She’s been hinting that she wants to see you more than she wants to see me, and that never bodes well.”

Well, that sounded… oh, he was _smirking_. That utter tease.

“Well, I was going to be back—when I say a couple of days I do literally mean a couple; I will probably fly out tomorrow morning and be back by dinner the next day—but just for that I might stay away. Book into a spa.”

“I doubt Paringa has a spa, but you are more then welcome to. I’d never stop you,” he said, unexpectedly—or perhaps expectedly—sombre. Well, there was no standing for that.

“As if you could,” she replied with a laugh, moving onto his lap. “But I’m sure I could be _persuaded_ to come back.”

As much as she appreciated the openness of his smiles and laughter, there was something in the tiny, secretive upturn of his lips—so reminiscent of their early interactions and moments when they were alone in a room full of people, that thrill of newness and understanding—that sent a shiver of anticipation right through her.  

“How, exactly, do you propose I persuade you, Miss Fisher?”

She leaned close, allowing her fingers to trace the shell of his ear before following it with her tongue, then catching the lobe with a gentle tug of her teeth. He shuddered.

“Convince me,” she exhaled, smiling when his eyes closed at the sensation. “Use those delightful hands, and your words, and any other… _instrument_ at your disposal and make me want you so badly that when I climb into that airplane all I can think about is flying it home.”

His eyes closed tighter as he tried to breathe, and a tendon on his neck appeared at the tension. She licked it, a quick little flick of her tongue that provoked an involuntary thrust of his hips.

“God, Phryne,” he pleaded. “You cannot do that to me and then leave. Please.”

“You want me to stay?” she asked, toying with the starched collar of his shirt.

“No. No, by all means fly away. Just don’t torture me first.”

“You have a funny definition of torture.”

“Oh yes. Forty-eight hours of thinking about you and wanting you and not getting to have you. Absolute torture.”

“You’ve lasted longer.”

“I have.”

“And I’m an unapologetic wanderer, which means you will again.”

“I will.”

“And yet?”

His eyes opened for the first time, so piercing she found herself as breathless as she had left him.

“Forty. Eight. Hours.”

“Silly man,” she said, kissing him. “I’ll do it in thirty-six.”

“That’s not much better.”

“You’ll just have to make the evening memorable then,” she purred, shifting against him. His hand slid up her thigh, his thumb brushing against her silk knickers; she arched into his touch with a moan.

And then it hit her.

“Oh, Jack, darling, we can’t—”

“Dinner, right.”

“Yes. And Squirrel. He was helping Mr. Butler do…something, but he’s still awake.”

Jack groaned. “I cannot wait until we have this house to ourselves again.”

“Just a little while longer, darling,” she said, kissing him lightly. “And it’s not all bad.”

“I would agree with you under other circumstances, but not right now,” he muttered. “Do you know how long it’s been since we fucked on this chaise? And now I have you on my lap, wet and eager and about to abandon me for the wilds of South Australia for weeks on end…”

“Two days, Jack,” she laughed.

“The point remains, this is insufferable.”

There was a knock on the parlour door, then Mr. Butler’s voice calling through.

“Miss? I’ve fed Master Anthony and taken him off to bed, because he was looking rather peakish. Dinner is ready to serve—”

“Actually, Mr. Butler, I think we’ll just help ourselves later,” Phryne called out, flashing Jack a victorious smile. He shook his head in bemusement. ”We’re in the middle of a very sensitive investigation.”

“Wicked woman,” he mouthed, leaning forward to press a kiss against her neck.

“Of course, Miss,” came the butler’s voice through the door. “Will that be all for this evening? I rather thought I’d take in a show at the cinema if you could spare me.”

“That sounds marvelous. Enjoy yourself, Mr. B! I’ll see you in the morning—I’ll have an early start, so coffee will be in order.”

“Of course, Miss Fisher.”

They heard Mr. Butler retreating—a deliberate act, she suspected, because he was usually silent—and exchanged a look.

“I do not know where you found that man,” Jack said with a shake of his head, “but I am increasing my contributions to his salary effective immediately.”

 

———

 

Phryne arrived in Paringa in the early afternoon and checked into the only hotel. Looking up Thomas Mulroney’s address and arranging a ride to the farm several miles out of town for the next morning took only a few minutes, and once it was done she quickly scoped the small town for a likely place to eat. Satisfied that the small Italian restaurant would suffice, she returned to the hotel, sprawled on the bed, and did absolutely nothing for two hours. Her intentions to nap—the flight had been rougher than anticipated and the combination of late night and early morning had left her tired—were derailed rather thoroughly by what she would face the following day.

The options were simple enough: It could be the wrong Thomas Mulroney, leaving her no further ahead; it could be the correct Thomas Mulroney but Betty Dixon was no longer with him, giving her a longer trail to follow; or she could find Betty Dixon on the farm, ideally lovely and eager to take in her great-nephew but either way providing an answer. And yet it did not sit quite as well as she expected. Irritated, she rose and dressed for an early dinner.

Dinner itself was pleasant; a young man—sandy blond hair, a burly build, and an impressive smile—invited her to join him at his table. He was charming and flirtatious and Phryne appreciated the distraction and the aesthetic benefits of the company. When he invited her back to his home she declined without hesitation, citing a marriage; Jack had only ever asked that she be discreet and inform him so he was not blindsided during an investigation, but having that option somehow meant that she’d never felt the need to take it. She returned to the hotel instead, stopping to use the communal telephone.

Mr. Butler answered.

“Fisher-Robinson residence,” he said, and Phryne felt herself smile. It was nice to be away, but it was also nice to know that her home was running much as it ever did even without her there.

“Mr. Butler, could I speak with Jack please?”

“I will see if he’s available, Miss Fisher,” he replied.

There was the sound of the receiver being placed on the table, then Mr. Butler walking away. After a minute she could hear another set of footsteps—Jack’s, naturally, she’d know that stride anywhere—and finally his voice through the line.

“Phryne?”

“Hello Jack! I thought I would telephone, see if you are missing me yet,” she teased.

“I doubt you were even at the airfield by the time I started missing you,” he replied. “Found a murder already, have you? My authority doesn’t cross state borders, so you’re well and truly on your own this time.”

She laughed. “Not so much as a missing cat, I’m afraid.”

“Pity,” said Jack. “I was almost enjoying the peace.”

“Mm-hm,” Phryne replied doubtfully. “Glass of warm milk and a book?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Uh, Snow White,” Jack said, sounding almost sheepish.

She glanced at the clock—nearly half past nine.

“It’s awfully late for fairy tales.”

“Ant’s having a bit of a rough night,” he confessed. “He was rather insistent that we read it. It’s better than that blasted gumnut baby one, at least.”

She groaned at the memory. Perhaps she’d send the thing off with him when he left.

“Is he…?”

“It’s nothing serious,” Jack said. “He’s just having a rough night.”

It was a rare day indeed when Jack was not painstakingly honest, determined never to shut her out of his life the way he had his wife. Ex-wife. First wife, really, in the ways that mattered though they so rarely used the term between them.

“What aren’t you telling me?” asked Phryne.

“He asked for you,” he admitted. “I think he’s still reeling a little from losing his mother, and he didn’t see you this morning or tonight and thought he’d lost a new constant.”

“Oh,” Phryne said, uncertain how to take such a discovery.

“He’s fine, Phryne. He’s just a little off-kilter. It will have to happen soon enough.”

In the next few days, quite possibly.

“Is he still awake?”

“Just drifted off,” Jack assured her.

She nodded, knowing Jack would not see it but unsure how else to respond. There was nothing she could have done from Paringa, after all. There probably wasn’t a thing she could have done if she was in Melbourne. That this seemed almost a failure rather than a natural state of things though, that was new.

“I’ve found the Mulroney address,” she said after a moment. “I should be back at the airfield by six.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Jack replied. “Telephone me if that changes?”

“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, darling.”

“Fly safe, love.”

Phryne returned the receiver to the cradle and headed back to her room. There was no nightlife to speak of in the town, so she curled up with book—an anthology of women poets that had arrived from America the week before—and enjoyed the evening before turning in early. Her ride to the farm was arranged for nine the next morning, so she rose earlier than usual in order to bathe, dress in a sedate and eminently respectable suit—somehow she could not imagine the conversation going half so well if she chose furs and frippery—and eat breakfast at the small cafe down the street.

The farm was mostly orchards, a sign at the end of the drive advertising cherries for sale. Well, that was rather serendipitous; Jack was exceptionally fond of cherries, and it would give her an opportunity to test the waters without revealing the purpose of her visit.

“Please come back in an hour,” she told the cab driver, paying double the actual fare to ensure he would.

The man nodded agreement and Phryne made her way towards the house. Her approach was not quiet, and she was met by a man coming around the back of the house.

“Hello! I’m here for some cherries?” Phryne called out with a wave. “I’m Phryne Fisher.”

“Tom,” said the man, wiping dirt from his hands. “Tom Mulroney.”

Phryne gave him an appraising look as she approached: he was of a similar age to the elusive Betty Dixon, tall and lean, and with a sickening sort of honesty pouring from him. Probably not well-educated, but the kind of man who worked hard and knew his job. Not, she thought, a bad sort to leave Squirrel with.

They chatted lightly for several minutes while he selected her cherries, and Phryne decided that she rather liked the man.

“Tell me, Tom, are you married?”

He flinched.

“Ahh, no,” he replied, and Phryne felt the letdown of another promising lead turning to dust before her. “Betty—that’s my wife, or was—she died three years ago.”

Oh. That was… not good.

“Betty Dixon?” Phryne asked.

Tom nodded, then looked at her. “What’s it to you?”

“Born in Ballarat in 1883?”

“Whatcha asking for?”

“I’m a private detective from Melbourne,” Phryne said, extracting a card from her large handbag. “I’ve been looking for her. Her niece, Helen, was murdered two months ago and she is next of kin for Helen’s little boy.”

“What about her sisters?” Tom asked. “Helen’s mum, or Connie.”

“Helen’s parents both died when Helen was a child,” Phryne said. “Helen went to live with Connie.”

Tom let out a low whistle. “That’s no good. Connie’s mean as a brown snake, and her husband’s worse.”

“Considering both of them were arrested for Helen’s murder, I think it’s fair enough to say I agree.”

“We never knew,” Tom said with a shake of his head. “Betty and I couldn’t handle it, cut off the whole side of the family. Connie was so vicious, and Helen’s parents looked down at us because we weren’t married, not legally—my first wife ran off and I couldn’t bring myself to file for divorce—so we just stopped speaking with them when Helen was only wee. If we hadn’t….”

“I’m sorry,” Phryne said, reaching out to lay her hand upon his arm. “The whole thing must be quite a shock.”

“And you said Helen had a little boy?”

“Yes,” Phryne said. “His name’s Anthony. He’s two years old and exceptionally fond of hats, of all things.”

Tom nodded. “What’ll happen to him?”

“Welfare, if we can’t find a relative from Helen’s paternal family. Betty would have a claim, but not you. Especially since you weren’t legally married.”

“I couldn’t take a little one in by myself even if I did,” Tom said. “But Welfare?”

“I’m working very closely with them,” Phryne assured him. “He’s in a foster home for now, and they think it will be easy enough to find him an adoptive family given his age.”

Tom nodded again. “And would you… keep me informed? I’d like to know he went somewhere loving.”

“Of course,” Phryne said. “I can even encourage them to write to you, if you’d like. There’s no guarantee they would, of course, but I can ask.”

Tom murmured an agreement, then seemed to realise he was still holding her cherries in his hand.

“These are on me,” he said, passing them over.

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” Phryne insisted. “I was just doing my job.”

“I insist. Do you need a ride back into town? I didn’t see a car.”

“I rather think I do,” Phryne smiled. “And perhaps you could tell me more about Betty? I’ve been keeping a record of Anthony’s family for him; I don’t know if he’ll ever read it, but I thought he might like to know about them, and it was only a few extra minutes of work as I did my investigations.”

Tom nodded again. “Wait here. I have a photograph of Betty with Helen as a little girl. I think Anthony would need it more than I do.”

He loped into the small farmhouse, coming out with a photo in a glass frame. Phryne looked at it; Anthony strongly resembled his mother, it seemed—the same upturned nose and chubby hands, though her hair seemed much lighter than his.

“Thank you,” she said, extracting a scarf from her purse to wrap it carefully. “Shall we go?”

She made notes of Tom’s stories on the journey into town; it had been a silly little impulse early on, to fill a notebook with the details of Helen Fox as relayed by neighbours and colleagues as she copied out the details for her own records. She remembered when Ivy had returned to Melbourne, uncertain what she would find but desperate to know something of her father’s family; it had been difficult for everyone. This, at least, would give Anthony some answers, small though they may be.

When they arrived back at the hotel, Phryne gave her thanks and promised to be in touch when she knew Anthony’s fate. Then she headed into the reception to telephone Ed Prentice and bring him up to date with the latest developments.

“Miss Fisher!” he greeted her jovially. “It’s been, what, a week since you last telephoned to harangue me about a foster place?”

“I’m sure it’s not been quite as long as that,” Phryne said. In truth she hadn’t thought of it; if a place had opened Ed would have telephoned, and since he had not the status quo had remained. “I’ve tracked down Anthony’s great-aunt. She passed away several years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ed said. “Is that the only family?”

“I’m waiting to hear from my solicitor in England regarding family of Helen Fox’s father, and I cannot see that taking much longer. I imagine we’ll have answers one way or another by the new year.”

“I really am sorry that this arrangement has become so prolonged. If I had known—”

“Ed, it’s fine. Nobody expected this to be as long as it has been,” Phryne interjected, realising that she genuinely did not mind. “We’re all just doing our best with what we have. Now I really must dash, I still have to fly back to Melbourne.”

 

———

 

Jack pulled the picnic basket and blanket from the back seat of his motor car—Phyne would have no doubt preferred the Hispano, but his was enclosed and therefore much more practical for transporting impulsive children—spreading the blanket across the grass before turning his attentions back to the vehicle.

“Come along then, Ant,” he called. “I believe Mr. Butler packed some sandwiches for while we wait.”

Boy (and stuffed dog, as if there had been any doubt) tumbled out of the door and ran over, taking a seat beside him. They were early, but not excessively so. Jack passed the time pointing out objects in the sky, steadfastly avoiding the fact that one of those objects would soon enough be Miss Fisher. Ant had been quite distressed by her absence the night before, and Jack could only hope that Phryne found his aunt before the attachment grew any stronger.

“Dack! Dack!” Anthony said, suddenly enthused as he grasped Jack’s face and directed it towards the sky. “Dack! Da mooooon.”

Sure enough the gibbous moon was visible even in the daylight, and this discovery seemed to enthrall Anthony. He was, Jack had to admit, a very charming child. No. No, that was not quite right. He had charmed _Jack_ , all heavy limbs and quiet words and vivacity in unexpected moments. Hands seeking his for comfort, curiosity and contemplation and silly little giggles over the strangest things. The possibilities had snuck up on him, Jack realised, and it ached to have it so near.

“Moooooooooooonnnn, Dack! Da moooooon!”

“Yes, I can see the moon,” Jack said, pulling his face away. No amount of charm could make the facial manipulations pleasant. “Would you like a sandwich?”

“No, da moon.”

He was back, immediately in front of Jack with his tiny fists grabbing Jack’s face once again and pushing him towards the sky.

“Unfortunately, you cannot eat the moon even if it is made of cheese.”

Anthony pulled away and cocked his head. “Cheese?”

“Oh yes,” Jack said solemnly. “The moon is made of green cheese and wishes.”

“Moon cheese?”

“Absolutely, Ant. Moon cheese. Now come eat a sandwich.”

They spent the next twenty minutes or so in much the same way; Ant would point out some object in the sky—usually the moon, which he seemed particularly pleased by—and Jack would reply. At some point he managed to secure Jack’s hat and place it on his own head, giggling when it tipped over his eyes. Eventually Jack spotted a familiar silhouette in the distance and pointed it out to Ant.

“Can you see that?” he asked when it began the descent. “That’s an airplane.”

Anthony watched it, sidling closer to Jack as the sound and size of the machine became clearer. By the time Phryne had touched down he was sitting on Jack’s lap and wrapping himself under Jack’s arms. The place coasted to a stop and Phryne leapt from the seat as she always did, waving at them from the distance; Jack somehow doubted that he would ever grow tired of seeing her return, wild and refreshed and in her element. A moment later Anthony recognised the figure, because he let out the most ear-piercing _shriek_ Jack had ever heard and slipped from his arms before he could react.

“Mims! _Mims_! _Miiiiiiims_!” he yelled as he ran; Jack scrambled to his feet to catch him, but it was too late. “Mims! Da moon! Look da moon!”

He collided with Phryne’s legs, Phryne reaching down to keep him from falling; she said something with a shake of her head—a reprimand, Jack assumed—but smiled as she did so. Jack stopped his chase, halfway between a picnic blanket and Phryne and unable to move. Unable to breathe. He suddenly found that he did not want to hear the outcome of her trip and chided himself for it; he’d known that it had become too familiar, but until that moment he had not realised the implications.

Phryne came to him instead—there was something comforting in knowing that she would meet him as often as he would meet her, a delicate dance they had created—Anthony in her arms because he refused to release his grip.

“Hullo, Jack!” she called as she drew nearer. “I see you’ve misplaced your hat again.”

“I see you’ve grown another appendage,” he countered. “Ant, please release Miss Fisher.”

“No.”

Ant’s arms tightened around her neck.

“He’s fine, Jack,” she assured him, close enough that she could kiss him briefly in greeting. “I was just telling him that I flew to the moon last night.”

Jack gave her a doubtful look. “I think all those children’s stories have gone to your head, love.”

Rolling her eyes, she shifted Anthony into a more comfortable position. “Oh, believe me, I find them as insipid as I always have. But since ‘I just discovered that your only living family, well, isn’t’ is a little above his head, a bit of whimsy seemed more appropriate.”

“I’m sorry,” Jack said, certain she would be frustrated. To his surprise, she merely shrugged.

“I’ve done my job. It’s not the ideal outcome, but now we wait for my solicitor to get back to me about the potential family in England and go from there.”

Jack gave her a small smile, his mind still grappling with his sudden insights, and wondered how much longer he could last without giving the game away. Not, he feared, long enough.

“I’ll fetch the picnic basket,” he said. “I have a feeling that I’ll be driving us back, unless you can convince young Anthony there to release you.”

Given how tightly the boy clung to her, he doubted very much that she would dislodge him any time soon. It would make the drive home easier, at least, though how Phryne intended to get the plane back in the hangar was less certain.

 

———

 

The next day, Dot seemed overly distracted and contemplative. They had gone to interview a man about one of their cases, and on the way home had stopped the Hispano in a quiet spot near the foreshore. Dot left to purchase fish and chips and returned, her nose scrunching up at the smell of the vinegar. In her absence, Phryne had laid out a spare blanket and they sat, looking out to the water.

“Is there something you wanted to speak with me about?” Phryne asked gently, suspecting that the newest addition to the Collins family was on the way.

Dot opened her mouth, then shook her head.

“Nothing, miss.”

“Alright, but you do know that you can speak to me about anything? Even if it is a matter you think is not of interest,” Phryne said, leaning in to nudge Dot’s shoulder gently as she took another chip. “You are my friend, Dot, and I want to hear about your life.”

To her surprise, Dot leapt off of the blanket and began to walk down to the water. The younger woman was clearly upset, and Phryne was uncertain what she had done. When she showed no signs of stopping as she approached the water, kicking off her shoes and paying no heed to her stockings, Phryne sprung up to follow her.

“Dot!” she called, hurrying across the sand.

Her friend turned, and Phryne realised there were tears in her eyes. She tried vainly to smile through it, but Phryne kicked off her own shoes and followed her into the water.

“Dot? What’s wrong?”

Dot shook her head, wiping furiously at the tears that had escaped, and turned back to look to the horizon.

“I… it’s nothing.”

“It’s certainly not _nothing_ , if it’s upset you this much,” Phryne pointed out.

“I was…there was…”

“A baby?”

Dot nodded mutely, and Phryne realised what had happened.

“And now there’s not,” she concluded. “Oh, Dot, darling.”

She reached out, and Dot shied away from her touch. Phryne pulled back.

“Come back to the blanket,” she said. “You don’t need to talk about it, but I will listen. For as long as you need.”

And at that, Dot began to sob. Ankle deep in the sea and unsure what to say, Phryne let her friend cry on her shoulder until she was spent. Then Dot pulled away and gave her a small smile.

“I’m sorry. I’m being silly.”

“Never apologise for your feelings, Dot,” Phryne said, leaving the water and grabbing both pairs of shoes before moving back towards the blanket.

Dot followed Phryne silently, taking a seat beside her and sighing.

“How are you?” Phryne asked. “If you’re not up for working… you can take as long as you need.”

“No, miss. Working helps. Keeps me busy.”

Well, Phryne couldn’t fault her for that method.

“If that changes though, you know—”

“I know,” Dot said, and they lapsed into silence again. Eventually Dot reached up and removed her hat, tossing it between them and closing her eyes. “It’s just—Nell says I’ve got two already and mum says I can try again and I’m pretty sure Hugh’s mother would say it’s because I’m Catholic—”

“And that’s utter rot, Dot, all of it,” Phryne cut in. “To put it quite bluntly, it can and does happen no matter how many children you have or which church you attend or whether you are a deserving mother. There is no ‘deserving’ when it comes to this, and your family can go jump off a pier if they tell you otherwise.”

Dot snorted softly.

“I don’t think Father O’Leary would like to hear you say that.”

“Well then, Father O’Leary can jump off a pier too.”

Dot gave her a look that was both scandalised and amused.

“I’ll drive him to the water myself if he says a word against you,” Phryne offered, and Dot snorted again.

“I might just help you if he does.”

“That’s the spirit,” Phryne said. “But, I really _am_ sorry. I’m sure you had dreams, and those are not so easily transferred or forgotten.”

Dot sniffed, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

“Why is it, miss, that you’re the first person who has understood?” she asked quietly. Then, placing her hat back on her head, she gave herself a shake and stood. “We should head home before my mum brings the children back.”


	14. Chapter 14

It was Jack’s weekend to work, so Sunday dinner was in the evening; the Collins family were absent, because it conflicted with the children’s bedtime, but it did allow for his mother to arrive in town. When visiting she stayed with Ivy in Jack’s small flat; the arrangement would no doubt change in the new year, as Jane intended to take the second bedroom, but for now it gave her a much-appreciated freedom. She arrived bearing a clootie pudding—”For Christmas dinner,” she explained as she passed it over, “I cannae abide the Australian fruit cakes.”—and a large pile of presents to place beneath the tree.

Mr. Butler was rather prodigiously proud of his fruitcake, and Jack briefly wondered whether they might be subjected to the most civil rendition of fisticuffs the world had ever seen. Thankfully, Jane came bounding down the stairs at the exact moment, hugging Mairi and asking how her trip to Darwin had gone and whether Ivy was coming to dinner as well.

“Very well and aye, lassie,” Mairi said with a wink. “She’s jes’ coming with more gifts.”

Jane headed out to greet her friend, and Mairi came to embrace Jack next. There was a scuffle from behind him, and she looked down the hall.

“The wee bairn’s still here?”

Turning to find Anthony standing down the hall, Jack nodded. It hadn’t occurred to him to actually warn his mother. “Ahh, yes. The—”

“Say nae more,” Mairi said, handing Jack her hat and coat and moving down the hall. “Hullo, Anthony. Do you remember me?”

Anthony stiffened, shooting Jack a glance. Jack nodded in response, but it did not seem to carry the reassurance intended; Anthony pulled Cleopatra closer to him and watched Mairi suspiciously, shifting backwards as he did so. When Phryne emerged from the kitchen behind him, greeting Mairi warmly, he took the opportunity to bolt behind her legs and resume his watchful gaze from the relative safety.

“Squirrel!” Phryne scolded. “This is Jack’s—this is Mrs. Robinson. Say hello.”

Anthony shook his head, and Phryne rolled her eyes.

“Sorry, Mairi. He’s not very fond of new people at the moment,” she said. “Anthony, off to bed. Jack will be in to read you a story in a moment.”

Mairi turned and half-raised an eyebrow at Jack, and he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head in response: _Later_. It was so quick Phryne didn’t seem to notice the exchange, touching the boy’s shoulder to send him towards his room before heading to the parlour while asking Mairi what she would like to drink. Jack followed Anthony to bed, settling him in with a story and a song—he tried not to imagine what his mother would say to hear his childhood lullaby in this context—before joining the others in the parlour. After a drink Mr. Butler announced dinner and they all moved towards the dining room. His mum caught Jack’s arm just before he left the room, keeping him back.

“Jackie?”

“It’s a long story, mum.”

“Make it quick then,” she countered, and Jack sighed.

“It’s taken longer than expected.”

“And?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s nae a ‘long story’,” she pointed out.

“Nothing has changed.”

“Are you certain?”

“ _Mother_!”

“I’m jes’ asking. That dinnae look like that on your birthday, dear.”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose; his mother did have her moments. He wondered whether he should reiterate that they were not interested in having children regardless of how Phryne’s interactions with the boy “looked”, then decided his mother would just see it as a reason to debate.

“I believe Mr. Butler has made beef bourguignon,” he said. “We best go through.”

 

———

 

Phryne’s birthday fell on a Wednesday. She arranged for a long luncheon with some friends from society; Squirrel clung to her especially tight that morning, still unwilling to leave her side without a fuss after her trip, but between Mairi, Dot and the Collins children he was sufficiently distracted for her to make her escape to the boudoir to dress, and then to leave the house.

An opportunity to meet up for good food and laughter and several glasses of champagne was exactly what was required. She parked the Hispano and walked into the Windsor, heading directly for the restaurant; Madeleine and Viola were already there, and Josephine arrived shortly after.

“Wherever have you been, darling?” drawled Viola. “It’s been so terribly _dull_ without you.”

Phryne gave an abridged version of events, and the women laughed.

“You and a _child_ , Phryne? What a hoot!” giggled Madeleine, and Josephine shook her head.

“Isn’t that what nannies are for? I hardly see Charles and Mary unless I want to.”

Mary, Phryne recalled, was hardly older than Agnes and Anthony. She’d never quite understood why Josie had opted to have the children; neither she nor her husband seemed to pay them any mind. It always seemed more logical to avoid it than to carry on the way they did. Not that she felt parents should give up all their interests—she rarely gave it any thought at all, but when she did she was quite adamant that they should not—but to not alter in the least? Incomprehensible when it was easier to avoid it altogether.

“Exceptional circumstances,” Phryne said, waving her hand. “Really, I’d rather talk about anything else. Tell me, what delightful bits of gossip have I missed?”

It was a guaranteed method of changing the topic, and the women happily began telling Phryne all she had missed with the downturn in her social events. Such downturns did happen—it was the nature of her work in both investigations and charity commitments—and it was always a delight to catch up. The meal lasted several hours, and by the end the women were discussing going dancing that evening. Phryne declined; she had a dinner with Jack arranged.

“Perhaps for New Years,” she laughed. “My plans for this evening would get us evicted, even from The Green Mill.”

Viola guffawed; there really was no other word for it.

“I never understood what you saw in that policeman of yours,” she said, “but it must be something else. You’re still utterly besotted; if I didn’t love you so much I would find it nauseating.”

Phryne smiled, thinking of Jack; she had not thought herself the sort who swooned over a man, but he _was_ exceptional. A partner, a counterweight, a marvelous lover. Good and kind and honourable. Wildly intelligent, wickedly funny, and wonderfully wanton. She was, though it went against her nature, very thankful that he had stayed in step. Still, there were some sentiments she was disinclined to share.

“Have you seen the man’s hands?” she asked instead. “There are some things a woman just needs to keep for herself.”  

That seemed to placate her friends; they laughed again as they hugged and said their goodbyes, and Phryne returned home. Mr. Butler greeted her at the door, taking her coat and asking if she cared for a drink. When she declined with a puzzled glance—several glasses of champagne were more than enough for the moment, and her butler would usually know that, even if it was almost time for evening cocktails—he informed her that Dorothy, Mrs. Robinson, and the children had borrowed her old gramophone from the attic and transformed the nursery into a ballroom.

“Thank you, Mr. B,” she said, heading towards the stairs.

She paused at the bottom step, debating whether to retreat to her room, but turned and moved towards the nursery instead; she paused very briefly in the door, watching Dot and Mairi waltzing—not well, Phryne would have to admit, but waltzing—with Aggie and Anthony in their arms. Theo watched suspiciously from the floor as the toddlers laughed at every turn and flourish. As the song finished Anthony was left facing the door, and spotted her.

“Mims!” he shouted, struggling until Mairi set him down. “Mims! Mims!”

“Hello, miss,” said Dot. “We’ve been having a lovely time this afternoon. I don’t think Anthony even noticed you were gone.”

Considering the boy had launched himself at Phryne and was now securely attached to her leg, Phryne had some doubts. But he was smiling, and that would suffice; she couldn’t quite forget how tightly he had held on to her when she’d come back from Paringa, as if he thought she would disappear any moment.

“I can see that, Dot,” she said, then a thought struck her. It would be a shame to waste the music. “Seeing as we now have enough partners for everyone, perhaps another dance or two?”

And that was how Jack found them an hour later; they had progressed to jazz tunes that gave the children more freedom in their steps, and Phryne was swaying to a particularly upbeat rendition of _I Got Rhythm_ when there was a cough at the door.  He didn’t say a word; the amused twitch of his mouth said it all for him. She shifted Anthony to the floor and moved towards him.

“Should I be worried?” Jack asked, nodding to where Anthony stood rooted. “Stealing my dance partner?”

“Not at all, darling,” she grinned, reaching for his hand and pulling him into the room. “He keeps stepping on my toes.”

 

———

 

There was always a lunch held at Wardlow on Christmas Eve; it allowed the family to celebrate together before being flung to all corners for the day itself. Dot and Hugh’s mothers seemed to engage in a battle to host every year, leading to the entire Collins family suffering through a mad dash across the city and two large meals. Cec and Alice and little June would visit her family out of town, often with Bert in tow—the latter grumbled mightily and went anyway. Ivy would return to her mother’s place for an extended visit. Some years Jack worked Christmas day, though not this year. The Christmas Eve tradition was an opportunity to surround themselves with their chosen family.

Phryne was overseeing the final preparations early that morning when the telephone rang.

“I’ll get it, Mr. B,” she said cheerfully. “You keep…trussing that turkey.”   

She went into the hall.

“Fisher-Robinson residence,” she said. “Phryne speaking.”

The connection was full of interference and the accent wasn’t Australian.

“Miss Fisher? It’s Arnold Purbrook.”

“Arnie?” she asked. “Whatever are you doing calling on Christmas eve?”

“It’s still the 23rd here,” her England-based solicitor said. “And I thought you’d appreciate this news regardless of the date.”

“It’s not father, is it?”

“I did say _appreciate_.”

Phryne laughed. Arnold Purbrook had been a family friend and ally against her father’s attempts to marry her off before she had moved to Australia, and they retained a fondness and intimacy of old friends despite the years and distance.

“Whatever is it?”

“News regarding Helen Fox’s next of kin.”

Phryne sunk down onto the seat beside the telephone table, searching it for a pen and paper.

“Phryne?”

“I’m here, Arnie,” she said, finally spotting the pen directly in front of her. “You said you’ve found them?”

She moved the pad of paper closer to her and placed the pen to it in preparation.

“Not quite, I’m afraid. There was only an elderly uncle, and he’s in no shape to take the boy in. I’ve already sent off a telegram to your Welfare offices and a copy of the entire investigation via the post, but I believe you can fairly say that Anthony Fox has no kin to take him in. I imagine that’s a relief, in some ways; he can enter the system now.”

“Ahh, yes,” she said absently, looking at the line she’d drawn through the word _family_. Her voice was steady when she spoke again. “Yes, that’s quite a relief. Better to go now than to wait another month or more for family to arrive via ship.”

“Yes,” agreed Arnie.

“Are you certain?” she asked. “I would hate—”

“I do know how to perform my job.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Phryne said, giving a light laugh. “I do so like to be thorough.”

“It has all been managed here,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, it is getting late and I must head home.”

“Of course. Give my love to Clara and the girls,” Phryne said. “Goodbye.”

When the telephone was returned to its cradle, she stayed in her seat for a moment. Well, right. Yes. That was sorted. She smoothed the skirt of her dress, pen still in hand, and laughed at herself for the absent-mindedness. Of course nothing would happen just yet, with the holidays and all, and finding an adoptive family would likely take some time, but it was done.

“Not out of the woods just yet,” she chided herself, heading back towards the kitchen to continue overseeing the luncheon preparations.

 

———

 

The guests began arriving for lunch around noon; Ivy and Mairi came first, joining Jack and Anthony in the garden. Jane came out shortly after, taking a place next to Ivy and starting a conversation about arrangements for the new year. Phryne’s cabbies were next—he’d forged an antagonistic friendship with Bert, though they would both deny it, and Cec was so good-natured that it was impossible not to like him, and his wife and infant daughter were just as amiable. Prudence barged in with her usual aplomb and immediately set up court in the best-positioned chair; she called Doctor MacMillan over to discuss hospital issues when the latter arrived.

The Collins family came last, running late; poor Dot looked frazzled, bemoaning several little instances that had delayed their arrival. It was so unlike her usual cool composure that Jack wondered if she was quite well. Before he could ask, Phryne came out of the house, hugging her friend and murmuring some words he didn’t catch. Whatever they were, Dot visibly relaxed and took a seat in one of the chairs he had put out that morning.

Jack watched it all play out from near the kitchen door, waiting to aid Mr. Butler with the food once it was prepared. It was a gorgeous summer day; not too hot as to be unbearable and with the scent of blossoming flowers in the air. The three mobile children were chasing a ball—Ant and Aggie running, Theo crawling desperately behind—and laughing; it brought to mind gatherings of Jack’s own childhood, neighbours and cousins and him and Dan, and dreams from early in his marriage. He closed his eyes and allowed the sun and the sounds to wash over him.

“Penny for your thoughts, Jack,” Phryne said from somewhere to his left; he hadn’t heard her approach.

“It’s a beautiful day.”

Her arm slipped around his.

“It is,” she agreed. “Good food—Mr. Butler will be serving soon, he’s just waiting for a pie to cool—and good company.”

He opened his eyes; her attention was drawn to the scene before her, all the people she loved, and her eyes were soft and a contented smile curled up the corner of her lips. Every time he thought he could not love her more, that he could not find her more beautiful, she surprised him.

“The very best company,” he agreed. “Did I hear the telephone earlier?”

Her lips quirked, a tiny little tell; he’d used it last time he’d goaded her into a game of poker—cards were apparently slightly more palatable if played for clothing—and she’d never realised.

“Ah, yes,” she said. “It was Arnie Purbrook. My solicitor in London?”

Jack nodded. “What did he have to say?”

“He was telephoning about Squirrel,” she said quietly. “He’s confirmed that there is no next of kin.”

Suddenly the day did not seem so warm. It had been a long time coming, Jack knew that; it should not have been such a surprise. He sought out Anthony, who had stopped running after the ball and was mid-conversation with Prudence Stanley; he was smiling broadly as he chattered in his own way, a far cry from the terrified child Jack had found at a crime scene two months before.

“It doesn’t seem possible, does it, to be that young and have no family at all?”

He turned to Phryne, who was also watching the boy intently.

“That’s not quite true though,” she said, her eyes never leaving Anthony. “It’s not true.”

There was something in her voice, pitched low and uncertain.

“Phryne?”

She turned, worrying her lip lightly. There were…oh god, were those tears in her eyes? He could count on one hand the number of times he had seen her cry. He froze, uncertain how to respond.

“It’s not true, Jack. It would be much more convenient if it was, but it’s not.”

“What are you saying, love?”

She took a deep breath, exhaling so sharply her hair fluttered in the wake.

“He…” she gestured the tableau before them. “He has us.”

“Phryne?”

She could not _possibly_ be saying what she seemed to be saying. Perhaps she intended for the Collinses to take him in. Or Cec and Alice. Or nobody at all, that it was simply a sentiment about the rag-tag family that was drawn into her orbit for a time before continuing onwards. But she could not mean _that_. Phryne turned, facing him, and laid her hand against his forearm as if reading his mind and ready to prove that she was sincere.

“Do you remember, last year, when you said… you said it would be different if I was questioning whether I wanted it.”

He did. He also remembered being utterly certain she did not.

“He has us,” Phryne repeated. “And I don’t know how it happened, or why, and I don’t… I don’t _know_. Not for certain. But he has us, and that matters somehow.”

Jack was silent for a moment. Contemplative.

“We’d have to get married,” he said finally. “Damned paperwork will be the death of me.”

Phryne nodded. “I know.”

“And we can’t just… we need to talk about this. Properly. If you want this.”

“I’m not entirely certain I have a choice, Jack.”

She gave a small laugh, too brittle to be sincere.

“You always have a choice,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her close to press a kiss against her hair. “But it’s not always an easy one.”


	15. Chapter 15

Phryne did not precisely _regret_ her words; it was the right thing, she was oddly certain of that. But that was not enough to stave off the growing sense of dread in her stomach as the luncheon wore on. She tried to catch Mac’s eye as they began to eat, but when her oldest friend came over she found she could not give her thoughts voice and asked her a question about the hospital instead. She was all charm and grace through the meal and the conversation after, though she watched Jack with half a mindful eye. He did not seem quite himself; she would have thought him relieved by her suggestion, if not outright happy. But he was quiet, and almost seemed to avoid looking at Anthony the entire afternoon. When Ivy needed a ride to the train station immediately after lunch—it was the last train that would allow her to make her connections and arrive at her mother’s house for Christmas day—he jumped to offer his assistance, and even his sedate driving pace could not quite account for how long he took to return.

As the day wore on the company dwindled, until the only one left was Mairi. She said her goodbyes to Jack and Phryne and moved to the kitchen with Mr. Butler, intending to help with the last of the baking for the following day before returning to the flat. Jack took Anthony to bed—Phryne tried very hard not to let her roiling stomach show on her face when he waved good night—and Jane played on the piano briefly before heading upstairs herself. She kissed Phryne on the cheek and made a quip about Father Christmas arriving soon; though she knew Jane had been too old to believe when she joined the household, Phryne had always given the pretext that Santa filled Jane’s stocking. It was a small thing, and silly, but both of them knew all too well the experience of empty socks and bare trees.

Waiting for Jack’s return, Phryne curled into a chair and attempted to read; she spent more time staring at the flames in the fireplace.  Eventually there was a cough behind her and she looked up to find Jack had made his way into the parlour.

“Should we…?”

“Talk?”

His lips quirked.

“I was going to suggest we finish wrapping the gifts,” he replied. There was the evasion again.

She unfurled from her seat, folding the corner of her page down to mark her place, and headed up the stairs. The gifts were in their bedroom; many of them were wrapped when they were purchased, but a handful were not. Wrapping them with Jack had become something of a tradition after that first Christmas in London; it inevitably ended with her challenging him to find the bow she’d secured somewhere around her person and unravel it sometime around midnight. She had the unwrapped parcels and the paper spread across the floor by the time Jack joined her, and they began wrapping in silent tandem. The swish of scissors through paper and the crinkle as a box was wrapped were the only sounds for some time.

“What do I have to do to make you talk?” she eventually asked.

“Phryne…”

“Jack.”

“Have you thought this through?”

His tone was too rough; she didn’t like it. She didn’t like the way her stomach clenched at his question, either.

“I might be impulsive, Jack, but I’m not completely foolhardy,” she said, raising one eyebrow coolly.

His hands on a half-wrapped package stilled.

“I didn’t mean—There’s a lot to consider, that’s all. And that’s just the logistics, never mind what comes after.”

“Logistics such as?”

“ _Marriage_ , Phryne,” he blurted out, clearly agitated. “Have you thought about what that would mean?”

“Nothing that we haven’t already negotiated.”

He shook his head, and she _knew_. She knew what he was about to say, what he was about to ask of her, and she had no intention of hearing it.

“I knew you didn’t consider this a marriage.”

It was a harsh sentiment, but true.

“That’s because it’s not,” he countered, then softened. “I have never asked you for promises. But if you make them, then _yes_ I want you to keep them. And if you can't or won’t, I need to know that too."

"And what about you, Jack? Will all my worldly goods become ours? Will you expect me to obey?"

"Of course not," he said quietly. “I would never—”

"Why not?” she challenged, hoping he would see how absurd this situation was. “Those are part of the vows, aren't they?"

“I have no intention of asking you for something that you would not give—”

“You clearly have no intention of taking something that was given freely,” she interjected. “And yet you are asking for my fidelity?”

“You’re right,” he said, the presents before them entirely forgotten. “I don’t know why I even bothered.”

As much as she would have liked to leave the matter at that, it could not go unaddressed.

“Because it’s important to you."

"Most likely, yes."

"And you don't trust me," she concluded.

He leapt up, raking a hand through his hair.

"I trust you. I trust you to keep the promises you've made."

"But when it comes to monogamy, you hope to... rescind your offer and change the terms of this promise?"

"Marriage _is_ a change to the terms of that promise, at least to me," he said, voice lowering to a near growl. It would have frightened her once, to hear that tone from a lover. But she knew Jack’s voices; the clipped crispness of real anger was not there, just frustration.

“Why?”

It had never mattered before, not since the day they had laid entangled beneath the sheets and discussed their return to Melbourne. “ _Be discreet, be honest, but be yourself,_ ”  he had murmured against her hair, and that had been enough.

“Why?” she asked again.

“Because that’s what marriage _is_ , Phryne. I can’t… I can’t feel like you’re just waiting for something better to come along.”  

"And the fact that I've never taken you up on that offer, not once in nearly three years, that doesn't mean anything? It has to be all or nothing?"

"It means _everything_. If I thought I was asking you to give up some vital piece of yourself...no, I would never. All I am asking is that you understand that, to me, this—”

"This is real, and you were just taking second best without a murmur because you thought it was the only offer you'd get?"  

"No!” His entire body recoiled, every line tense. He shook his head adamantly. “I...I need a couple of minutes."

He beat a hasty retreat from the room; Phryne watched the door shut quietly behind him and blinked back tears. Damn the man. She had not felt the need to take another man to bed since she’d taken up with Jack, but that did not preclude the possibility she might.  And what would be the outcome then? Either she would resent Jack for the restriction or betray his trust; she could not bear the thought of either. Not over a silly bit of paper.

 

———

 

Jack shut the door quietly behind him—Phryne was the sort who appreciated a well-slammed door when she was frustrated, but he did not—and moved downstairs. It might have been the height of summer, but he felt the need for cocoa and silence; his head was swimming. _Why_ did she insist on being so damned stubborn?  It wasn’t unreasonable, after all; and then to throw out that tired argument about the _money_ on top of it, as if they hadn’t gone around and around on the matter.

There were things marriage was—a partnership, a shared intimacy, a promise—and things it was not—an opportunity to exert control, to begin with—and he’d spent well over a decade distinguishing between the two. And he’d been quite happy without the whole mess, if he were honest; sure he might occasionally use the pretense to his advantage, but they had forged their own partnership with their own rules. With their own definitions of what it was and was not. And it had worked. It did work. Only now it _wasn’t_ working and the alternative….

He sighed and scrubbed at his face. It was no use. Turning on the range, he began simmering a pot of milk. He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ survive another marriage with broken promises. That was the truth; perhaps a better man could, but he could not. And so that left them with… what? An argument with no resolution and a child without a home. He tried very hard not to think of the latter as he added the cocoa to the pan and whisked. He had not stopped to wonder whether that was even something he wanted.

(Every part of him screamed that of course it was, that part of him had wanted it from the very first night when he had walked in to find that Anthony was sitting on the nursery floor instead of some anonymous foster home, that he had somehow forgotten what it had been like to ache for a child all those years ago until life, until _Ant_ , forced him to remember. He wanted it, but he knew that was not the same as meaning he could have it.)

He tested the pot—not enough cocoa; adding more, he continued to whisk. There was no point debating whether he wanted this madness; it would not come without marriage, and marriage could not come without agreement. And as Phryne had made abundantly clear, there was no agreement to be had. So, no marriage and hope like hell he hadn’t just managed to ruin the best thing in his life. Marvelous. At least the cocoa was ready.

He sat down at the table, wrapped his hands around the mug and took a drink. It was warm and comforting and _simple_. He sighed appreciatively.

“I like your wife.”

Jack jumped and turned towards the kitchen door, where his mother stood.

“You’re still here?”

Mairi shrugged. “Tobias and I ended up playing cribbage,” she said. “By the time it was over it was too late to go back to the flat; he put me up in a guest room.”

“Ahh,” said Jack, staring down at his mug.

“The point is, I like your wife. She donnae let you wallow the way Rosie did.”

“I really do not want to hear about Rosie’s failures as a wife right now, mum,” he said, taking another sip.

Mairi came into the kitchen, rustling up some biscuits and offering the tin. They sat together in silence for several minutes, the only sound the heavy clink when Jack lowered his mug to the table.

“I dinnae dislike Rosie, despite what she thought,” Mairi eventually said. “But you were always a sensitive lad and she let you stew in your own juices, at least for the little things, and then couldn’t figure out why you dinnae tell her about the big ones.”

“I’m not stewing,” Jack said defensively over the rim of his mug. “I’m thinking things through.”

“You’ve been ‘thinking things through’ all day, dearie. At this point you have to accept that either you won’t come to the solution yourself or you’re jes’ going in circles and convincing yourself that you’re right.”

“Thanks, mum,” he said dryly.

“My point is, I cannae see why you are down here weeping into your cocoa instead of _talking_ with Phryne.”

“Have you ever argued with that woman?” Jack asked, shaking his head in resignation. “There’s no point.”

“I said talk, not bicker,” his mum said, plucking the now empty mug from his hand and placing it in the sink. “And I have not argued with her, but I spent most of your teen years arguing with _you_. I believe I can safely say that I am familiar with pointless arguments.”

“Dan was worse.”

Mairi laughed. “He was. That boy was ornery as hell and far too charming for his own good. But I do mean it—go talk to her. It will do you both good, even if you don’t find the answers right away.”

Jack sighed, pushing up from the kitchen table.

“You’re both impossible, you know that?”

“I ken,” Mairi said. “We have to be, to deal with you.”

Jack chuckled and gave his mother a hug, then headed towards the door.

 

———

 

Phryne had finished wrapping all but the last gift when Jack returned. He opened his mouth as he stepped into the room, but Phryne held her palm up to stop his words.

“No,” she said, standing and crossing the room to him. “No, this first.”

And she kissed him, a kiss of warmth and familiarity and love.

“You had hot cocoa!” she accused when she pulled away. “And you didn’t bring me any?”

He huffed a small laugh, the corners of his lip turning upwards.

“I didn’t. Will you ever forgive me?”

Pretending to think, she kissed him again; a little more forceful this time, a challenge he met easily with one hand moving to span her back and press her against him. When it ended, they stood with their foreheads pressed together.

“Can we talk?” she said quietly. “Just… talk?”

He nodded, and she reached out to catch his hand in hers. A gentle tug and they moved to the bed, sitting side by side. She traced the veins on the back of his hand, trying to find the words. For once, he beat her to it.

"Phryne, I love you. And if things were different—if it wasn't my job and my reputation on the line, if my very existence didn't warrant censure in your circles—than we could be truly equal. But that's not the way things are, and I'm sorry for it. You have given up so many of your freedoms, and I am selfish enough that I don't regret that if it means we have _this_.”

“That’s good,” she said, “because neither do I. That’s not in question. You do know that?”

He nodded. “I know. The point is… the arrangement we have is not second best. It is _the_ best option available, the one that grants us the most freedom. I’m not pining away for a marriage license, or too proud to take the money. I just—I’m not willing to take more.”

“So you have kept boundaries for my sake."

"For both of us, yes."

"Even though I have explicitly said that those boundaries are not what I desire."

“I..." he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. "I suppose so. It made much more sense in my head."

"It always does. And I was not, perhaps, as understanding as I could have been," she conceded; she knew that there had been times when she had assumed every distinction had been an intentional slight despite evidence to the contrary.

“Have I mentioned lately how disconcerting it is when you admit you were wrong?” he asked, and she giggled at his attempt to appear serious.

“It happens so rarely you don’t have a chance to adjust.”  

He smiled at that; it still surprised her from time to time, how different he looked when he did, and she impulsively kissed the corner of his mouth before laying her head against his shoulder.

“Perhaps, then, an understanding?” she proposed. “This partnership—our household, our money—is freely shared with you because I want it to be. It is not an obligation; I don’t _do_ things out of obligation, aside from that incident with my father. I want you to… I don’t expect you to avail yourself to it, and maybe that’s why it is so easy for me to offer, but it is there if you ever need it.”

"I know. I've never doubted that, Phryne."

“But I want you to _try_ not to hold yourself separate,” she requested, pulling back to watch his face.

He sighed, but nodded in agreement.

“None of this resolves the matter at hand,” he said.

“Anthony?”

Jack flinched.

“Yes,” he said, voice tight. “If we are going to… pursue your suggestion, then marriage is the only option. And God help me, marriage requires promises I have never asked you for. I cannot be in a marriage where it does not."

“Would it be so bad?”

“That’s what a marriage _is_ , Phryne.”

He had said those exact words earlier, adamant that a marriage had to be a certain way. Not, she thought, his usual open-minded self.

“Why does it have to be? We’ve never bowed to convention before.”

“Because if it’s not—”

His jaw clenched, and she cursed her sudden insight. It happened sometimes, some tiny expression crossing his features telling Phryne everything she needed to know.

“Because if it’s not, then it throws your entire marriage to Rosie into question,” she said quietly.

Phryne considered Jack’s ex-wife a friend, and knew that she and Jack had stayed in touch after her move to Sydney, but they rarely discussed the woman between them. She’d known enough to realise that Rosie had been courting that monster Fletcher at the same time Jack had clung to his marriage vows like a drowning man.

Jack nodded curtly. “Something like that.”

“You can feel that way, darling, and that’s fair,” she said. “But you can’t… you can’t dictate what I do because of it. You can’t let your fears or your nobility or your damnably rigid sense of duty define us. _That_ is not fair. It’s not fair on you, or me, or what we are together.”

“And what are we together?”

Phryne shrugged. “We are whatever we want to be, and nobody gets to decide that but us.”

His eyes closed, and he swallowed hard; she reached up to brush her thumb across his cheekbone, leaning in to catch his scent.

“We don’t have to have all the answers immediately,” she said. “Just so long as we are both willing to try.”

“But you won’t—”

“Don’t ask that of me, Jack. Not that, not this way.”

She watched his still face as he worked it through—a twitch of an eyelid, a quirk of a lip—and waited. Finally he exhaled loudly.

“Do you really want this?”

“I do,” she said, swallowing her own lump of fear.

“Ed’s on holiday in Queenscliff until the new year. We have that time to work through the details. And if it turns out that it is… not agreeable to either one of us, then it’s not agreeable. No recriminations, no judgment.”

“Never.”

He nodded slowly, then opened his eyes.

“Should we finish the wrapping?”


	16. Chapter 16

Consciousness came to Jack very slowly the next morning; a heavy weight across his chest and hair tickling against his mouth were his first thought, but he was too comfortable to shift away. Instead he lay perfectly still, cataloging the sensations as he woke—the gentle hew of Phryne’s snoring, wafts of soap and sex causing a previously sated hunger to stir. He luxuriated in the warm familiarity for some time.

Eventually he opened his eyes, finding the scene exactly as he knew it would be. Her head against his shoulder, mouth opened slightly, limbs sprawled and pinning him to the bed. It did not matter how she fell asleep, he always woke beneath her. He had teased her, early on, that she was clearly attempting to evict him from the bed.

“ _Don’t joke, Jack_ ,” she had chided, biting her bottom lip uncertainly. “ _If it’s bothersome, there is a guest room. I know you need to sleep._ ”

“ _Would you prefer that?_ ” was his offer in reply.

She had shaken her head, and that had been the end of it. She had no intention of evicting him and he had no intention of being evicted, so he’d resigned himself to being used as a mattress instead. Though he was loath to admit it, he’d actually grown fond of the whole thing—it gave him an excellent view of her freckles, if nothing else, and it was worth it for that alone. Even if it did occasionally put his arm to sleep.

Watching her in sleepy contentment was not helping the matter at hand, and he attempted to extract himself to attend to his morning needs.

“Fuck off, Jack,” she muttered, tightening her grip.

Jack chuckled in reply. “You kiss all your lovers with that mouth?”

She stiffened at the same moment he did, both of them suddenly remembering the previous night’s discussion and waiting for the other to react. After a moment she relaxed her grip, and Jack brushed a stray lock of hair from her face.

“Only the ones who piss me off,” Phryne mumbled, still mostly asleep. She had a filthy mouth some days; it always made him smile to see her with the guard of propriety down.

“A badge of honour, then.”

She opened one eye to look at him, lips twitching slightly. “Fuck. Off. Jack. You had me up until four in the morning. Now it’s time to sleep.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining at the time, love,” he replied cheekily, smoothing her silky hair with his free hand. “And we have to get up. It’s Christmas.”

“Not yet, surely?”

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table. It had just gone half seven.

“Not just yet,” he agreed, settling into a slightly more comfortable position.

“Good,” she exhaled against his chest, nestling closer.

Jack glanced down, catching sight of his hand spanning across her hip. It was large and brown against her skin; it was easy to forget how small she was, her presence usually enough to fill an entire room. But in these sleepy morning moments, when she was soft and warm and not quite awake….

“I love you,” he said quietly.

He felt her smile against him.

“I love you too,” she replied. “And that is just for you.”

He'd been an idiot.

“You don’t—”

She pressed a finger to his lips, looking up at him.

“None of that. Sleep. Pretty words later.”

His tongue darted out to flick the pad of her finger, and she let out a breathy moan.

“Too early,” she objected, moving up to kiss him gently even as she complained.

“Absolutely,” Jack agreed as he laced his fingers through her hair and pulled her close.

“We should be sleeping.”

Her hand trailed down his chest, then his stomach, coming to rest on his cock.

“Of course.”

Another slow kiss, and a stroke of her hand.

“On the other hand… it _is_ Christmas.”

“It is,” he agreed.

“And I’ve been very good all year.”

“You have.”

He rolled onto his side to face her properly, and she gave him a sleepy smile. Leaning in, he brushed his lips against the column of her neck, smirking as her head lolled back to give him better access. He followed the line down to her clavicle, scraping his teeth gently across it before moving lower still.

“Good behaviour should always be rewarded,” she purred.

He paused in his ministrations just above her navel to look at her, moving back to her lips when he liked what he saw.

“It should,” he agreed when he pulled away.

“So what do you say?”

He slid his hand from her hip and stroked her, finding her already wet; she pushed against his hand lightly in response, and he tried to stifle a groan. Lifting her leg over his, he sank into her slowly and they began to move together, languid and full of promise. When she came it was nothing more than a sigh and a flutter of her muscles around his cock; he followed her over the edge with a stutter of his hips.

“Oh, darling,” she breathed, kissing him once more. “You really ought to wake me this way more often.”

“I try,” he said dryly, smiling fondly at the contented picture of her sleepy eyes and flushed face. “You keep telling me to fuck off.”

 

———

 

An hour later, they were both downstairs and greeting the rest of the household—Jack in a shirt and trousers, Phryne still firmly in pyjamas and a robe in protest of the time of day. Breakfast was eaten in the dining room, Phryne insisting that even Mr. Butler join them for the meal. The conversation was lively; Jane was speculating about a particularly large gift she had seen by the tree—it was a bicycle, to assist her around the city once she moved to the flat for school, and Jack suspected she knew it full well—and his mother relating a particularly embarrassing anecdote from Jack’s childhood that had Phryne nearly in stitches. A moment later she leaned in close, caressing his thigh beneath the table as the conversation continued around them.

“Mmm, Jack….” She murmured into his ear.

“Absolutely not, Miss Fisher,” he replied neatly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “We will both pretend that you never heard of the young Jackie’s budding career in arson and petty vandalism.”

“You were five!” she laughed. “And you did mean well.”

“I’m sure that was of great comfort to Mrs. McInally.”

“Well, your mother seems to have survived the incident unscathed, at least.”

“You didn’t see her face at the time—I thought she’d tan my hide for leather.”

“You know—”

“You cannot possibly be about to relate a story about a previous lover in full view of our butler, my mother, and two children.”

The deliberately naughty biting of her lip and the look of mischief in her eyes told him that was _exactly_ what she intended to do. Distraction was his only hope; he leaned in close, as if to whisper in her ear furthest from the table, and nipped the lobe instead.

“Later, love,” he chided, smirking as the hand on his thigh tensed. Then he turned back to the table, seamlessly transitioning back into the conversation at hand; beside him Phryne smiled and followed suit.

When the meal was over, they moved to the parlour where a tree was surrounded by presents. Mairi volunteered to hand the gifts out, so Jack and Phryne sat side by side on the chaise and watched. Along with the bicycle, Jane received a silk scarf, a full set of encyclopedias, a necklace, and some stationery. There was another scarf for Mairi, a selection of chocolates, and a framed photograph of Jack, Phryne, Ivy, and Jane; the woman travelled so frequently that it was difficult to find items that suited her lifestyle, but these were small and personal. Jack and Phryne usually exchanged their gifts to each other in the evening, but there were small presents for them from the rest of the family—new cufflinks for Jack, a hairpiece for Phryne, books for them both. There were even a handful of packages for Anthony; they had not been certain if he would still be at Wardlow, but Jack had selected several books when he’d been in a book shop for other reasons, Mairi had purchased him some socks, and Dot Collins had stitched him a small stuffed koala. Generic, but not unwelcome selections.

“Aye, another one for wee Anthony,” Mairi said, producing a gift from beneath the tree. “From… Mims?”

“His attempts at Miss Fisher, as far as I can tell. Not even I am cruel enough to ask him to attempt Phryne,” laughed the woman in question.

Mairi nodded, passing the present to Anthony. Jane helped him with the ribbon, and then he methodically pulled the paper away. Inside was a hatbox, and when he lifted the lid he gasped in delight.

It was a grey fedora, perfectly made to fit him.

"Really, Phryne?" Jack said quietly, and she shrugged.

"I had half a hope he'd stop wearing yours before he crushed it. I'm rather attached to it, after all."

She waved a hand dismissively, as if was nothing, but Jack knew better. She had—before this mad idea of keeping the boy had even come up—taken the time to purchase a gift, a very personalised gift, for a child that may or may not have been in the house by Christmas, simply so he did not go without. It was thoughtful; the sort of thoughtfulness that would have surprised him once, but he'd come to expect from her. She loved to give gifts even more than she loved to receive them, pleased to be in a position to be generous.

He looked at Anthony, who had put the hat on and was clapping in delight.

“Da hat! Da hat!”

Jack smiled, allowing himself to really contemplate the possibility it might work out. He didn’t know how yet, and he had long ago stopped allowing himself to presume things would. But it was _possible_ ; anything was with Phryne. Across the room, Anthony spun in a circle and threw his hands up.

“Tada! Hat!”

"I think he likes it," Jack chuckled.

Phryne nodded.

“It suits him,” she said quietly.

 

———

 

Christmas morning passed in a blur of good food and laughter and piles upon piles of paper and packages, along with some very excellent eggnog. Phryne was utterly at ease; she did not always enjoy Christmas—there were too many memories of broken promises from her childhood, too many expectations for filial love and seasonal forgiveness as an adult—but her return to Melbourne and her newfound family had made far more happy memories than bad. Jack seemed to be his usual affectionate, playful self despite the panic of the night before. When Mr. Butler called them to lunch, Jack caught her hand as the others left the room; when they were gone he had glanced upwards, indicating the mistletoe with nothing more than a smirk, and snogged her senseless.

“What was that for?” she teased.

And if she thought the kiss had left her slightly breathless, it was nothing compared to the soft look of adoration in his eyes. The man could make an absolute fool of her; she was also certain he never would. She stood on her tiptoes—the one disadvantage to staying in pyjamas was the lack of heels—and kissed his cheek.

“If we don’t head into the dining room for lunch, your mother might mount a search party,” she said, giggling as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “You’re certainly friendly today, Jack.”

“Appreciative,” he corrected. “So very, very appreciative.”

She moved her hand from his hip to cup his rather divine derrière. “Mmm, I’m definitely appreciating things.”

There was a cough at the door, and they both turned to find Mairi watching them with amusement.  

“Told you,” Phryne hissed at Jack.

“Still better than your Aunt Prudence,” he whispered back, and she barked a laugh.

They went to lunch—a smaller spread than the day before, but delicious—then Jane asked to take her bicycle out for the afternoon, promising to be back before tea. Mairi decided that a post-meal walk was in order, offering to take Anthony with her. The boy had refused to remove his hat throughout the morning, which pleased Phryne immensely; it had been a silly indulgence when she had stopped by her milliner, but the look on Squirrel’s face when he had seen it had more than convinced her it was a good choice. Mr. Butler chose to go as well, citing a need for fresh air and sunshine, leaving Phryne and Jack alone in the house.

“I swear,” Phryne said with a shake of her head. “I am surrounded by psychics.”

“Or my mother engineered this before we came downstairs,” Jack laughed. “She caught me with the cocoa last night, and is no doubt determined to resolve the problem.”

Phryne bit her lip in amusement.

“Perhaps you should drink cocoa more often,” she teased. “Give us a whole afternoon for shenanigans.”

In the end, their time alone was occupied by nothing more exciting than a nap—between the emotional weight of their discussions and the late night, they were both tired. They were woken an hour later by the sound of the front door open and a wail. Before Phryne could react, Jack had rolled out of bed, replacing his braces on his shoulders, and headed out the door; when she came downstairs, fully dressed for the first time that day, the drama had been resolved and peace reigned once more.

She followed the familiar sound of Jack’s voice into the parlour and found him sitting on the chaise beside Anthony, who had clearly scraped his knee quite badly and was sniffling through Jack’s reading of a new book. _The Magic Pudding_ or something, she thought it was called—it was as utterly nonsensical as the gumnut babies.

It was quite the scene though: Anthony’s hat was still firmly on his head, his clothes dusty from where he had fallen, his little hand clinging tightly onto Jack’s arm; Jack leaning in closer as he read, adopting silly voices for the characters until the boy began to smile. His smile was remarkably like Jack’s; she’d never noticed before, but it seemed right somehow. It all seemed right, really—no doubt the sentiments of the day were influencing her and there would be all sorts of regrets and worries tomorrow, but for now… for now, she was utterly certain that this was the right thing to do.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh. AO3 ATE THIS CHAPTER. Which was mostly fine, but it's only gotten one formatting/error readover instead of my usual 3-5. Which is slightly excessive, but still. Feel free to point out anything egregious, as always!

Over the next few days, Phryne and Jack took stolen moments to raise potential problems; they agreed not to mention the possibility of keeping Anthony to anyone else until they had ironed out the details, so it often ended with hastily exchanged words as he dressed for work in the morning, or whispered between them when she stopped by the station. The first order of business was establishing a feasible explanation for the marriage situation and arranging a date early in the new year where it could be remedied, if they did indeed decide that it was the choice they were making. There was much prevaricating around the whole concept, every decision couched in terms of if and perhaps and on the off chance; Phryne suspected that it was a mutual fear of committing to the path too early.

It went remarkably well, all things considered. They did have similar views on most matters, and those they did not were rarely of importance to them both, so reaching a compromise was simple enough. Such ease could not last indefinitely, however, and a few days after Christmas they reached the first impasse.

Phryne had come in late; she’d gone from lead to lead in one of her cases, and it was nearly two in the morning when she finally slipped into the boudoir.

“Mmm,” Jack grumbled, shifting to his side of the bed. “You’re late.”

She carefully removed her earrings, using the light of the moon to place them in a dish to put away properly in the morning.

“I never gave you a time, Jack, so I cannot be late.”

“Squirrel was asking for you.”

She paused, hands in the midst of removing her black beret. It was not fair of Jack to use that nickname, an appeal to her sense of responsibility and sentiment combined.

“I had a case.”

“I know. But he was asking for you.”

“I cannot be everywhere at once.”

“No,” Jack agreed. “But it would be nice to know where you are choosing to be.”

“You cannot possibly expect me to account for my every action?” she asked in irritation; the truth was it had been a series of leads that had ended with her waiting at the docks in the middle of the night for a witness that never arrived, and her patience was low.

“It would have been nice, that’s all,” Jack said, half asleep. “He still won’t take the hat off.”

Phryne huffed a silent laugh, finally placing the beret on the table and removing the rest of her clothes before slipping between the silk sheets. She said nothing for some time, choosing instead to appreciate the warmth of Jack’s body.

“I can hear you thinking,” he said eventually, more awake than he had been.

“I’ve never… I don’t know, Jack. I’ve always been able to be in and out at any hour that suited me, without regard for anyone else.”

His hand reached out to hers and gave it a squeeze.

“This will disrupt your life to some degree, Phryne,” he said.

“I know. Believe me, I _know_. I think that’s a good thing, or at least a wanted one. I won’t be like Josie, sticking the children with a nanny and never seeing them. But I also can’t be Dot, ready to drop everything in an instant.”

“You’ve never been anybody but Phryne Fisher in your life,” Jack laughed.

“And now I’m Mims.”

Jack sat up and looked at her sombrely.

“You are many things to many people, love, but you’re always Phryne. This is just… an extension of that,” he said. “And on that note, there is something I need you to do if we do this.”

Neither one of them had said the word out loud yet, as if frightened that the mere utterance of the word 'adoption' would cause their tentative balance to collapse.

“What?” she asked, full of trepidation.

“You are Jane’s mother. One of Jane’s mothers. I would never deny that. But you are both content to hide behind foster mother and ward and guardian angel, and that works for Jane. She was older and hurt and it was safer, but that’s not…Anthony is too young for that. You would have to acknowledge that you are his mother, whatever form that ends up taking.”

The word filled her with dread. It was irrational, she knew, but the visceral urge to flee rose in her. She was not a _mother_ any more than she was a circus performer—a role she could don and discard easily, and had no interest in maintaining for any length of time. But Jane had been her daughter from the moment she had arrived, had she not?

It was, perhaps, easier to be defensive than to contemplate.

“What would you like, Jack? I can stay home, use my position as patroness of a large variety of charities as my only intellectual outlet?”

It was a sharp barb. Unfair, and utterly baseless. He merely tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes, as if expecting it all along.

“No. And if you really thought I was suggesting that, you’d have a foot out that door.”

“You underestimate your appeal, inspector.”

“But not you,” he countered with complete confidence.

“Then what?”

“Can you be his mother? Not can you be Dot, or Josie, or your mother. Just, can you be _his_ mother?”

“He had a mother.”

“So does Jane. That doesn’t make her any less than your daughter.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then you can’t,” he shrugged philosophically; she could not understand how he remained so calm. “I am sure that there will be someone, eventually, who can.”

Eventually was not good enough. She rolled the idea around in her mind. _His mother. My son._ It did not quite fit, but as she repeated the words the tightness in her chest began to abate. Just words. Just words and a commitment and something she never wanted but was, somehow, the right thing to do.

 

———

 

The morning after Phryne’s late return, Jack woke with a sense of resignation. He had, perhaps, played his hand too early; on the other hand, there was no point in continuing negotiations if she was unwilling or unable to accept certain conditions. It was better to have answers early than to continue to hope. And he had, he would admit, begun to hope very much. Still, he had anticipated such an outcome, and any disappointment would pass soon enough. Carefully slipping from beneath her, Jack pulled on a pair of pyjamas and his robe, brushing a kiss against her temple before shaving and then heading downstairs to breakfast.

In the nursery, Anthony was awake and playing quietly; legs stretched out before him, hat over his eyes. Jack had to admit that he still found the child’s self-reliance almost unnerving on occasion, but Mrs. Bowen had said that he had always been that way to some extent. While he was still nearly silent around strangers, he had begun to actively seek out comfort from members of the household more and more often, and the nightmares were less frequent; he was improving, albeit slowly. Anthony looked up when he entered.

“Dack!”

“Morning, Ant,” Jack said. “Breakfast?”

“Yeh, eat,” Anthony said, abandoning the toy cars before him to scramble towards Jack. He picked the boy up, holding him a little closer than was necessary while he still had a chance.

“Will you ever take that hat off?” Jack teased.

Ant shook his head adamantly. “No! Me da hat. Peese.”

“It’s yours, lad,” Jack said, surprised by how tight his throat felt. “Toast today?”

“Peese.”

Mr. Butler already had two plates of toast on the kitchen table, and asked Jack how he’d like his eggs.

“Omelettes all around, I think, Mr. Butler,” came a voice from the door, and Jack turned to find Phryne already dressed and shockingly cheerful. “Good morning, all!”

“Good morning, Miss Fisher,” Jack said.

She finagled one of the pieces of toast and raised an eyebrow.

“Since when am I Miss Fisher, Jack?”

He shrugged, smiling slightly. “I could only presume that anything rousing you from bed this early was a pressing professional matter.”

“Not quite,” she said dismissively. “I do need to visit my solicitor at some point today, but I simply thought I might see you off this morning.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Really, darling, you do presume the worst,” she scolded blithely, rounding the table to press a kiss against his cheek. “Perhaps I just missed your company. Shall we move into the dining room? There really is not enough room for all of us under Mr. Butler’s feet in here.”

By which, Jack presumed, she meant that she wanted to talk with him; a fact not lost on Mr. Butler himself, who offered to keep Anthony entertained with toast until the omelettes were done. Jack nodded his head and followed Phryne from the kitchen.

“So, Miss Fisher?” he asked when they were seated.

“Miss Fisher again!” she laughed. “I do hope you aren’t reprimanding me for last night?”

He exhaled, realising that he could not rule out the possibility; not intentionally, of course, but as a method of protection. The issue had been simmering in the back of his mind since he had gotten out of bed that morning.

“I didn’t expect you to be awake this morning, Phryne,” he apologised, running a hand through his hair and smiling at her. “ _I’m_ not quite awake yet, and certainly not at my best; somebody did wake me at two in the morning, after all. You said you had to see your solicitor today?”

She watched him curiously for a moment, ultimately satisfied by whatever she saw.

“Yes. I thought that if we are to…” she motioned towards the general direction of the kitchen. “I thought it would be advisable to discuss the matter—estate planning, the process, that sort of thing—with an outside party.”

He blinked. Twice.

“Are we?”

“If we aren’t, it won’t be over some silly quibble about which word to use. I’m made of sterner stuff than that, darling.”

He smiled slightly.

“Yes, of course you are.”

“If you can get away for an hour or so for lunch today, come home and I can tell you what he said?”

“I’m not sure I’ll have the opportunity—our lull in criminal activity seems to have passed, unfortunately—but if I do I’ll telephone and let you know.”

“If not, there’s always dinner,” Phryne said. “I’m sure you can manage that, even if you have to go back to the station afterwards.”

“I’m sure something can be arranged.”

“Excellent!” she said brightly. “And if you time it well, you can even do the bedtime story.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Thank you for that one, love.”

Mr. Butler came in with a tea tray a moment later, and the two of them ate their breakfast while talking of other matters. He promised to look into a man’s criminal history for her case before heading into the station. It was a morning full of dull but necessary aspects of various investigations, but he did manage slip away for a late lunch.

He paused as he crossed the threshold, eyeing the blue silk heaped on the floor, and smiled.  

“You do realise that it will seriously curtail the number of times I come home to find that you’ve dismissed the staff and have left a trail of intriguing clothing from the front door to wherever?” Jack asked after he had done just that; thank heavens his mother was still in Melbourne and taken the boy out for the afternoon.

She propped herself up on her elbows and grinned, chest still heaving. A plush rug in the library was their best investment to date.

“Valid point,” she laughed. “You’ll just have to take up late night cycling or something. Find a hobby, Jack.”

“I thought this _was_ my hobby.”

She laughed again, extending her foot to nudge him. “It’s certainly a subject of interest.”

He caught her ankle, softly running his hand along the back of her calf to tickle behind the knee.

“Oh, Jack,” she moaned, her head dropping back; it left some very intriguing topography to explore, and he moved forward to trace it with his tongue. “Oh god, _yes_.”

He really did mean to raise the issue—they were both very accustomed to freedoms that were not, perhaps, entirely feasible with a small child in the house—but she looked so delightfully wanton that all arguments fled his mind for quite some time.

Phryne laughed as she hurriedly helped him dress, giving a kiss on the cheek and a promise to give him the full report when he got home just before she shoved him out the door. He barely made it back to the station in time.

 

———

 

Phryne’s meeting with her solicitor left her irritable—she’d really liked Martins the Elder, but his son who had taken over the firm was a small-minded idiot who attempted to charge unscrupulously; she really did need to consider moving her business elsewhere—and in need of fun. Which had worked with Jack’s late lunch beautifully, but did make her feel annoyed that she’d distracted them from the conversation at hand. It was, she had to admit, a novel sensation.

When Mairi arrived back at Wardlow, Squirrel in tow, the boy was carrying on like the world was ending. Tears, wailing, pleas of “Mims! Help!”; Phryne was half out of her seat at the sound, but there was no real desperation behind it. She was well-acquainted with his desperate cries. Mairi waved at her from the parlour door and carried him through to the nursery, and Phryne sank back into the chair. There was the sound of a closing door and the wailing dimmed, and Mairi came into the parlour and poured herself a whiskey.

“I’d forgotten how delightful a whinging bairn could be,” she said dryly.

“Whatever set him off?”

Mairi shrugged. “I donnae know. Yer neighbour was out and tsking over his poor manners—”

“Mrs. Johnson?”

Mrs. Johnson was loud and meddlesome and very fond of insulting ‘that poor boy’ in the most backhanded manner possible. No wonder Anthony shut down at the sight of her.

“Aye. But we came up the other side of the road on the way back. It wannae that.”

All things considered, he was an even-tempered child; Phryne had witnessed more than her fair share of tantrums from Aggie Collins, who was the sort who felt grievances deeply and wanted to share them with the world, but very few from Anthony. He was far more collected.

Mairi raised an eyebrow. “It could be he’s discovered that he can.”

“Hmm?”

“Wee’uns can be… scared to show their worries, strange though it sounds,” Mairi said. “It may jes’ be he feels safe enough to show them now.”

Phryne stomach twisted. That was a good thing, certainly, but….

“Or,” Mairi added, smiling wryly, “it could jes’ be that he’s a child. They do do that, even the quiet ones.”

Phryne laughed.

“I do not know how you managed to do it with two of them,” she said, cocking her head to assess the status of the wailing. “But at least silence is reigning once more.”

“Small mercies. I swear, Dan started that awful noise and I wanted to smack him to make him stop.”

That was not an admission she expected to hear; Jack had always spoken so warmly of his mother, crediting her with his open-mindedness and unflappable nature.

“How did you stop yourself?”

Mairi took a sip of her whiskey, lips twisting into a grimace.

“I dinnae,” she replied. “I’m not proud of it, but I wasnae perfect either. One evenin’ he just wailed and wailed and I was about as big as a house and as tetchy as a bear, and I gave him a good clip around the ear. Andy came home to the both of us crying our eyes blue.”

Phryne pulled her legs beneath her, watching Mairi with a new tightness in her chest. Jack’s mother looked into her glass.

“My Andy worked long hours. I cannae imagine what he must have thought when he walked into the house that night. But he bundled me off to bed, sorted Dan, then let me cry some more. Dan forgave me a lot sooner than I forgave myself for that one.”

Phryne was at a loss for words. She stood slowly, pouring herself a drink and trying to ignore the slight tremble in her hands.

“I ought to check on the squirrel,” she said, placing her tumbler on the tray and not turning to face Mairi.

“Phryne?”

Phryne took a deep breath and turned, intending to smile brightly and extract herself from the situation as soon as possible. Unfortunately, Jack had most definitely inherited his piercing gaze from his mother and she was deploying it now.

“I’m sorry. That surprised me,” she confessed.

“Surprised me too,” Mairi said. “Rattled me something fierce, I… I dinnae ken why. It wasnae nothing that every mother on the street hadnae done for one reason or another. But then I realised—there is a difference between a fair consequence and doing it because I dinnae know what else to do, and I swore I wouldnae make the same mistake again. The boys knew what would earn a hiding, and both of them had their fair share, but I was never punitive.”

Phryne’s father had been. Punitive and vindictive and erratic; Phryne had learnt early how to evade his wrath with well-timed retreats and lies, and how to stand toe to toe with him without relenting. He’d hated her for the last, the indomitable girl who refused to bend to his will—he’d never realised how she would break in the dark hours of the night, when even Janey was asleep, unable to hold it together any longer.  She took another breath and her first panicked impulse abated; Phryne gave herself a mental shake, unsure exactly what had caused it to start with.

“I’m beginning to see why Jack became a policeman,” Phryne said, as lightly as she could manage. “The philosophies are remarkably similar.”

“I suppose they are, at that,” Mairi smiled. “Were you going to peek in on him?”

“Jack?” Phryne laughed, mostly in relief. “I think he might be a bit old for that. Though I suppose I should check on the tantruming terror.”

When she opened the door to the nursery, she was met by flailing limbs and a pout and the most enthusiastic “Mims!” she’d ever heard in her life. She wasn't sure if it made her feel better or worse.


	18. Chapter 18

When Mairi headed back to the flat an hour later, Phryne took Anthony into the kitchen for a drink of water. As she filled the cup, Phryne reconsidered the conversation; her reaction had been odd, and she could not quite dismiss the niggling feeling that the cause had not been resolved. It was not the smacking itself—that was too commonplace to warrant any reaction at all.  Jack was the most moral, caring man she’d ever known, and by all accounts his brother had been the same, so she did not think that it was an inherently damaging choice; it was nothing like her father’s erratic punishments.

_My Andy worked long hours. I cannae imagine what he must have thought when he walked into the house that night. But he bundled me off to bed, sorted Dan, then let me cry some more_ _._

Oh. It wasn’t that Mairi Robinson had made a mistake; it was that she relied on Jack’s father when she did.

She handed Anthony the cup, careful he had a good grip, and moved to put the kettle on.

“Miss?”

She turned; it was Mr. Butler at the doorway, bringing in some shopping.

“Oh, hello,” she said. “I was just making tea. Would you like some?”

Her butler gave her a considering look, and she realised what she had said. The poor man must think she’d lost her mind.

“I’ll bring it through to the parlour, shall I?” he said.

Phryne nodded; she hadn’t made such a gaffe since her first days in England as a teenager.

“Yes, please, Mr. B.”

She retreated to her familiar parlour. It was her favourite room in the house; decorated to her precise tastes, it was beautiful and comforting, and so much had happened in it since she had returned from Europe the first time five years earlier—most of her courtship with Jack, for she could admit now that it was a courtship before either of them had considered it such; dances and parties and long talks with her friends; investigations and confrontations. It was a good room.

She had found a family in Melbourne, and she loved them all dearly. But if she said yes to Squirrel… if she said yes and lost them, would she still manage? There were dangers inherent in Jack’s job, and hers. The world was in the midst of a worldwide financial crisis, and despite her safe investments leaving her day to day life much as it was, that could change. She needed to be honest with herself; if they were to take the boy in, if she was to become his _mother_ , she needed to know that she could handle it without money or support if such an eventuality arose.

Not, she assured herself, that it would. But if.

She was working her way through her second pot of tea when Jack came home that evening, still contemplating her dilemma. Mr. Butler had kept Anthony in the kitchen, claiming that the boy would be a great help in biscuit making. Judging by the clock on the mantelpiece, he was probably in bed now.

“Phryne?”

She looked up, realising that Jack seemed slightly concerned; she was getting that reaction quite a lot that day.

“Hello, darling,” she smiled.

“I take it the meeting with your solicitor this morning went well?”

She rolled her eyes. “So well I had no choice but to waste your lunch hour ravishing you senseless.”

“Yes,” he said, coming over to sit on the chaise beside her. “I do _vaguely_ recall this. Should I ask why?”

Phryne gave an exasperated sigh. “Mr. Martins Junior spent a great deal of time advising me on matters that were none of his business, then attempted to bill me for it.”

“That’s not the first time it’s happened?” Jack guessed; he had always avoided any discussions of Phryne’s legal or financial affairs, but it seemed he was at least making an attempt as promised.

“No, he’s a fool. His father is the best solicitor in Melbourne and both reliable and discreet, but the son…”

Jack nodded, but didn’t offer advice. Feeling a rush of appreciation, Phryne leant over and kissed his cheek.

“Anyway, that’s not really the matter at hand. I did manage to talk with him about the—” she attempted to hide her stumble by taking a sip of tea. “Well, there’s been some changes since Jane. It’s a much more organised and formal system, but not insurmountable. And obviously we will need to speak with Ed at Welfare once he’s returned; there are visits to the home, medical examinations, an absurd amount of paperwork, and then we can file the application. Presuming, of course, that we decide to.”

Jack nodded. “And the marriage?”

“Our story should hold up well enough—there’s the documentation that I added you to my last will and testament, and I’m certain your solicitor will be able to prove the same. So we pretend like the paperwork must have gotten lost somewhere along the way—going a considerable distance for our elopement did have its benefits—and we never realised, and arrange a date before filing the petition.”

“If we decide to,” Jack amended.

“Yes.”

She watched his still face from the corner of her eye; she did so wish that he was at least slightly more expressive. She could not tell how he truly felt, hedging around the matter the way he did. Of course, it would be that she was focusing on that small detail to avoid focusing on the larger ones. Before she could slip into melancholy, Mr. Butler arrived and announced dinner.

The meal and the rest of the evening passed as it usually did, and it was not until they were both in bed that Phryne allowed herself to consider the matter once more.

“I need you to promise me something,” she said into the darkness; his hand paused its explorations.

“What?”

“If we…. Jack, promise me that regardless of how obnoxious he is, how loud and disagreeable and defiant… promise me that we’ll never break his spirit.”

She heard his indrawn breath, felt his hands on her hip tense slightly. She may as well have slapped him in the face.

“This… this isn’t about you, darling,” she said quietly. “This rule is for me.”

He moved closer, his entire body pressed against hers, and kissed the crown of her head.

“Never, love,” he murmured. “We would never.”

 

———

 

On Saturday, Jack offered to take Anthony to the foreshore.

“ _Excellent_ idea, Jack,” Phryne said. “I might even join you once I’ve spoken with my suspect.”

There was a particularly casual tone to her voice that worried him immensely, but Jack just shook his head.

“I would ask that you bring your pistol—which is still unregistered and therefore massively illegal, by the way—but I’m fairly certain you’d leave it at home out of spite if I did,” he said dryly.

“You know me so well,” she demurred, then perked up. “But you won’t get rid of me that easily, so bring a picnic.”

He was dressed in casual clothes and was packing his swimming costume and towels when the telephone rang, and Mr. Butler knocked on the door.

“Telephone for you, sir. It’s the station.”

Jack ran a hand through his hair, cast a longing look at the swimming costume he suspected he would no longer need, and sighed as he headed down the stairs.

“Jack Robinson speaking,” he said down the line.

It was one of his sergeants; a fugitive suspect in one of Jack’s cases had been arrested, and was kicking up seven kinds of hell. He’d need to go in immediately, both for an interview and to bring order back to the station.  Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jack agreed, thankful he had not mentioned the plans to Ant at least. He went towards the stairs to change into a suit, popping his head into the parlour as he walked passed to explain the situation to Phryne.

“Can’t it wait?” she asked. “I thought you were going to the beach.”

“It really can’t. He’s suspected of beating two men to death in a pub brawl, and now he’s trying it on my officers. I’ll be as quick as I can, but I need to go in.”

She made a noncommittal sound in response, but Jack was already heading up the stairs. Mr. Butler had laid out one of his work suits—the man was a miracle worker—and Jack changed quickly, preoccupied with the upcoming interview. He’d been searching for Sam Nelson for the past three months; he’d disappeared after the fight, leaving behind a wife and three kids to fend for themselves. Jack trotted down the stairs, grabbing his hat and coat and heading out the door. He was halfway to the station when he remembered that Phryne had been going out for one of her own cases. Well, it would wait.

He didn’t get back home until late afternoon, and when he entered he found Phryne with a whiskey in hand and a look of irritation on her face.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “When the station telephoned I utterly forgot you were going out.”

“But you’d do it again?”

Trust Phryne to cut to the heart of the matter.

“Yes. And I won’t be made to feel guilty about it. My job—”

“Is no doubt more important than mine.”

“I didn’t say that. But I am accountable to more than a private client, Phryne. And sometimes that has to take priority.”

She waved her hand slightly, her habit when she knew she had no argument to counter but was unwilling to admit defeat.

“It will be of little matter soon enough,” she said dismissively.

“No?” he asked. Phryne could be impulsive, but he highly doubted a delayed investigation would be enough to change her mind; a part of him still wondered.

“A _nanny_ , Jack.”

A nanny. That was… well, of course. It was perfectly logical. He hadn’t even contemplated it.

“No.”

The word surprised him as much as it surprised her, and she crossed her arms as she looked up at him.

“No? How exactly do you propose we have two jobs between us without one?”

Jack shook his head, trying to work it out himself.

“Not _no_. Not yet, I think.”

“You _think_?”

Her look was disbelieving, and rather echoed his own sentiments.

“The arrangement we have right now… it works.”

She scoffed lightly. “You would say that; you aren’t the one who has to juggle it. You’ve been… _incredible_ , really. But as you say, you are accountable to a schedule; I’ve had to work around Mrs. Bowen and Dot and your mother when she’s in town, and Mr. Butler has taken on far more than he should.”

He sighed; she was right. He was also certain that his instinct of not yet was correct, and he’d long ago learnt to listen to those instincts. Thankfully he could think of a potential solution.

“I still have my long service leave,” he offered. “I know I was intending to save it for the next time you went to England, but… you’re right. I’d have to call in some favours to have it granted on such short notice, and I’d still have court appearances. But I can take the three months.”

“Jack…”

“It will leave me free for home visits and solicitor’s meetings and whatever else comes up. We could even go on holiday, if you’d like.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him.

“This is important to you?”

He nodded, and she shook her head.

“This is madness, you know that?”

“We’d still have Mrs. Bowen,” Jack pointed out. “And I suspect my mother would agree to extend her stay. But I just… this will be a big enough adjustment without adding another person to the mix. Especially a perfect stranger; Ant’s still not handling that well, we both know that. Just… give us a chance to find our footing first?”

Phryne cocked her head to the side, then nodded slowly. Jack felt a rush of relief.

“Thank you, love.”

“We could have Jane and Ivy join us for a weekend if we do go away.”

She seemed tentatively sincere; it left a warmth in his chest.  

“It might even be fun?” she said. “Time with the three of us, I mean.”

Jack smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t go that far. He’s still two.”

 

———

 

Phryne had thought that the nanny conversation would be the defining moment, yet the discussion continued. More negotiations, tentative steps and small concessions on both their parts; matters of school and discipline and boundaries and whatever else came to mind. She had never thought that there could be so many little details to consider. Or perhaps they had created little details, neither one willing to be the first to say yes.

Yes, we can.

Yes, we want.

Yes, we will.

“Abbotsford,” Jack said over lunch one afternoon very early in the new year, no preamble.

Phryne was going to tease him that it was a cruel thing to insist upon when Collingwood was clearly the superior team, but remembered an offhand comment he had once made about attending Abbotsford games with his father. Clearly it had meant more than he had let on.

“I’ll ask Dot to start knitting a scarf,” she agreed.

It was such a simple thing, in the end; they were going to do it.


	19. Chapter 19

The following Monday, Phryne spoke with the registrar and provided him with the banns to post, stopped by the House of Fleuri to arrange her outfit, and spoke with Ed Prentice about the situation.

“I must say that I’m surprised,” Ed said, “but I can see no reason it would be unacceptable.”

He provided her with the appropriate documents, explained the process, and arranged a date for one of his colleagues to visit Wardlow and speak with them both, then smiled and wished her well. She left the office feeling far more competent than she had entered.

One of the requirements was a medical examination, so Phryne asked Mac to come around that afternoon. Her oldest friend sat in her preferred armchair and stared at Phryne as if she had lost her mind when the details were revealed. Then she turned to Anthony, quietly playing on the floor nearby, then back at Phryne.

“What has that fool Jack Robinson done now?” Mac asked. "I mean, it’s clear that he’s besotted—”

“Is he?” Phryne asked. “I thought he might have been, but then…” She shrugged, thanking Mr. Butler for the tea tray he brought in. "He doesn’t seem to be. Don't get me wrong, Jack would make an excellent father. He's strict but fair, and so even-tempered it's unnatural. But this wasn't his idea."

Mac’s look of utter disbelief made Phryne laugh.

"I thought you didn't understand the appeal of children?"

"I don't. But it's... the right thing to do. I don't know how else to describe it, Mac.”

Her friend clucked. “This is far too big a thing to leave upon a fancy.”

“It’s not a whim. We’ve talked it through, and…” Phryne sighed in irritation at her own vagueness. “I never understood the appeal of tying oneself to another human being, and yet I have. Would I have come back to Melbourne and inserted myself into investigations if I had realised what would eventually come of it? That’s difficult to say; the me who is here now would, a hundred times over. But the woman I was then? Perhaps not.”

“The world would be a much grimmer place if you hadn’t,” Mac said, uncharacteristically sombre.

“But I _did_. And this is… it’s the same thing, really. It’s right.”

Mac poured two cups of tea, offering one to Phryne, then leaned back in her chair and stared.

“Why?”

“Why is it right?” Phryne asked, confused.

“Why _him,_ ” clarified Mac, and with the familiarity of long friendship Phryne understood.

“You mean, why _him_ and not some wayward Aggie Collins sort,” she said, then smiled slightly. “I love the Aggies of the world; heaven knows I am one. But really, Mac, are any of us surprised when it’s the quiet, bookish, hurt ones that secure their place in my life?”

Jack. Jane. Even dear timid Dot, once upon a time.

Mac shook her head. “You do have a point.”

Their discussion was interrupted by the front door opening; it was Jack, and upon seeing him Anthony was on his feet and running.

“Dack!”

Jack smiled broadly and scooped the boy into his arms, asking him about his day as Jack hung his hat up and came into the parlour.

“Doctor MacMillan,” he greeted Mac, then gave Phryne a kiss on the cheek. “Evening, love.”

“Good day?”

“The commissioner has miraculously approved my request for leave, beginning tomorrow. I’ll be up all night making sure all the paperwork is up-to-date, and I suspect I’ll be called in unofficially if there is progress in certain cases. But for the most part, you two have me until Easter.”

“Wonderful,” Phryne replied, reaching up to give his hand a squeeze.

He smiled lopsidedly in return, then excused himself to make tea. Phryne watched him leave, Anthony still in arms, and felt her heart stutter— _you two_. It was not intimidating in the least.

“Your sense of obligation is unrivalled, Phryne,” Mac said dryly, helping herself to a slice of cake from the tray.

“Does that mean you’ll do the examinations for us?”

“If I didn’t, some other poor blighter would.”

“I’d like it to be you.”

Mac nodded. “Of course I will. Though I can’t be entirely certain I won’t conclude a hideous case of madness.”

“I’m still wondering that myself,” Phryne replied, sipping her tea. “It really cannot be entirely ruled out.”

 

———

 

“I would expect this sort of thing from my niece, but _you_ , inspector?”

Prudence Stanley was sitting in the largest chair in her largest parlour, staring at them both with a disbelieving look upon her face.

“It really is so terribly unfortunate that the original marriage details were mislaid, Mrs. Stanley,” Jack said diplomatically.

The society matron narrowed her eyes, clearly doubting his veracity.

“You’ll allow me to arrange a proper event—”

“No, Aunt P,” Phryne said emphatically. “We appreciate the thought, but we’d rather not have our affairs known to all of Melbourne society. Think of the scandal! We’ll marry in the registrar’s office at the courthouse and no more needs to be said on the matter.”

Mrs. Stanley huffed, but Jack swore he noticed a hint of a smile behind it. “I will attend, of course.”

“Of course, Aunt P. If our elopement hadn’t been so spontaneous we would have had you there the first time.”

Jack wondered, briefly, whether Mrs. Stanley realised that her niece’s voice become increasingly higher pitched the bigger the lies she told; she’d nearly reached the sort of tones beyond the range of human hearing with that one.

“Whatever prompted you to discover the error after all this time, my girl?”

Phryne’s hand flexed in her lap; Jack shifted to lay a hand upon her knee, but stopped himself. If Phryne wanted his intervention, she would ask.

“We’re adopting Anthony,” she said; her voice was far steadier than he would have expected.

To his great surprise, Prudence Stanley nearly leapt from her seat and crossed the room to hug Phryne, who was equally shocked by the response.

“I… take it you approve?” she managed.

“Approve, Phryne? I am positively delighted!”

Jack did his very best not to laugh out loud at Phryne’s reaction.

“How wonderful!” Mrs. Stanley was chirping. “A new child in the family after so long.”

Jack vaguely remembered that Phryne’s cousin Guy and his wife did not have children, which having met Guy was probably a blessing in disguise. But it was likely a disappointment for Mrs. Stanley, who despite her class-consciousness and strict sense of propriety was a loving woman who adored children. He’d seen the maid’s little boy—Patrick, he thought—several times since Prudence had hired his mother after the case with the convent, and the usually fierce Prudence was exceptionally kind to him. And Anthony had been very fond of her on the occasions she had visited the house, which was unusual enough to note.

As they left Rippon Lea half an hour later, Prudence’s words still echoing in their ears, Phryne sent him a look of consternation.

“It would be nice if one person just said ‘How lovely. Congratulations. Have a biscuit.’ and moved onto another topic.”

“She’s excited, love.”

“She’s excited. Dot gushed. Cec is so soft you can imagine his reaction, and Bert was actually _worse_. I feel like I’ve lost my mind.”

Jack glanced at her, making sure it was more amused exasperation than genuine upset, then smiled.

“Your aunt wasn’t that bad,” he pointed out reasonably.

“You would say that. When you excused yourself to use the facilities I was subjected to a ten minute diatribe about the importance of a healthy diet. I’ve never voluntarily cooked a day in my life, but she was insistent.”

“She’s helping in the way she knows best.”

Phryne sighed, flopping back into her seat. “I _know_ , and she’s always wondered if Arthur’s problems could have been avoided if she’d done something differently. But the point remains.”

“Perhaps we’ll have more luck with my mother?” Jack suggested, and Phryne perked up considerably.

“She is still coming to dinner tonight?”

“I believe so. She’s meeting Ivy at the train station, but she should be at the house by eight.”

“Oh good,” she said, relaxing back into her seat. “At least your mother is sensible.”

 

———

 

Phryne had dressed for dinner three times, even going as far as asking Jack his opinion as she re-entered the parlour. Jack pointed out that it was a casual meal with his mother, and chances were very good he’d be in shirtsleeves because of the heat.

“You’re right,” Phryne said, casting a glance at her attire. “This is far too formal.”

Jack caught her arm as she went to change for a fourth time, pulling her in for a hug.

“You look lovely, Phryne, and mum wouldn’t care if you didn’t,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Come sit with me, just for a moment?”

Phryne took a  deep breath against his chest.

“I’m fine, Jack,” she said. “I’m just not entirely certain what I’ll do if your mother disapproves. I thought Aunt Prudence would, and she was much better than expected really. And heaven knows what Mother and Father will say, and I’d rather gnaw off my own leg than give it any consideration. But I like your mum, and she’s never been anything but kind to me.”

She looked up at him, eyes pleading. It was not a look he saw often, maybe half a dozen times in the entirety of their acquaintance, and he sighed. She’d faced down killers and career criminals, but her own doubts were where she stumbled.

“Phryne Fisher, I have saved you from barricaded saunas and crazed killers. Do you really think I wouldn’t face down my mother for you if you needed it?”

She laughed, her entire body relaxing. “I think your mother might be the most terrifying enemy to date.”

“That’s because she’s not the enemy, love,” Jack said. “She’s just my mother, and she adores you almost as much as I do.”

“So you adore me, do you?” she teased lightly, her nervousness gone in an instant.

“Utterly and completely, and if we weren’t expecting company in five minutes, I’d prove it,” replied Jack, eyes never leaving hers; the intensity of the connection had the desired effect, because she inhaled sharply, pupils dilated, tongue darting out to lick her lips.

Jack lowered his head to kiss her, chuckling against her lips when she moved to meet him halfway. It was languid and sweet and begging him to whisk her upstairs to bed, or possibly have her right there; if there wasn’t a knock on the door at that exact moment he likely would have.

“I do not know how people do that,” Phryne muttered mutinously. “Can we send her away?”

Mr. Butler announced the arrival of Mrs. Robinson, and Jack smirked. They were Tobias and Mairi to each other, but there were conventions that the man was not willing to ignore. The world could be ending and he’d make formal introductions and a pot of tea.

“Hullo, dearies! I’m nae interrupting, am I?”

“She’s as smug as you are,” Phryne hissed to him, then smiled and hugged her.

“Mairi! Did Ivy make the train?”

“Aye. She’s at home now, catching a kip. Says the train takes it right out of her.”

“I do wish she’d allow me to upgrade her tickets to first class.”

Mairi shook her head ruefully. “The Robinson pride prevents it…”

Phryne laughed. The two women moved towards the dining room, still talking, and Jack followed silently behind. Dinner was served; beef Wellington so delicious it would make grown men weep, and perfectly done vegetables. Mr. Butler was clearing the table when Mairi wiped her mouth with her napkin and looked at Jack.

“Out with it, Jackie.”

Jack opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh…”

Beside him, Phryne snickered at his reaction, then patted his knee and smiled graciously.

“Mairi, we have decided to make our arrangement with Anthony permanent.”

“Have you now?” Mairi asked. “That’s lovely. Of course, if you would like me to extend my visit to Melbourne, I’m more than happy to. Did Mr. Butler say that there was pavlova for dessert?”

Phryne shot Jack a look, clearly thinking of her comments after the visit to Mrs. Stanley that afternoon, and he shook his head slightly. He’d absolutely not put his mother up to that reaction. He leaned in to whisper into her ear.

“The two of you are remarkably alike,” he said quietly, thankful his mother had gone that route and not the victoriously crowing alternative.

Dessert and after-dinner drinks passed as they usually did; the topic of Anthony and the necessary wedding came up, but did not overpower the conversation more than any other subject. There was a lively debate about an artist Jack had never heard of, childhood stories, books they had all read. By the end of the evening, Phryne was slightly tipsy and giggling like mad.

“I love you, Mairi,” she said, giving the woman a hug as she prepared to head home.

Mairi hugged her back, casting a glance as Jack at the same time.

“ _Relieved_ ,” Jack mouthed, feeling guilty for betraying even such a small detail, and Mairi nodded.

“Now, I’ll be by tomorrow afternoon to take Anthony for an ice cream. You’ll come with us?”

Phryne hummed. “I do have quite a bit to arrange.”

“Another time then, dearie,” his mum said, patting her on the cheek.

Phryne agreed, then said her goodbyes and moved back to the parlour, leaving Jack and his mother alone in the hall.

“Do you need me to drive you back to the flat?” he asked.

“Donnae trouble yourself, Jack. I’m quite capable. Stay with yer family tonight.”

She drew Jack into an embrace, standing on her tiptoes to do so.

“I said to ye,” she whispered into his ear. “I said.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Yes mum, you said.”

“He’s a bonnie lad.”

“He is.”

Mairi pulled away, looking him directly. Her eyes were slightly watery, and based on the sudden lump in his throat Jack was entirely sure his weren’t as well.

“I’m happy for ye both,” she said. “A new little Fisher-Robinson.”

And at that, Jack was certain that the stinging in his eyes was tears.

 

———

 

On the second Thursday in January, Phryne stood alone in the boudoir considering her reflection. She’d chosen a red tweed suit—calf length skirt and a jacket, both with leather buttons down the front—with a cowl-necked silk blouse beneath, and a cream and red cloche and matching t-strap Mary Janes. She completed the look with her signature red lips, a slightly darker shade than usual, and small drop earrings.

_You can be married or buried in a good quality suit_ , Mme Fleuri had once told Dot; nobody in that room would have predicted that the suit-wearing bride would be Phryne.

She took a deep breath, smiling slightly; she had expected some doubt, but all she felt was a deep and abiding sense of peace. Glancing at the clock, she realised it was time to go. The rest of the family had been driven to the courthouse by Bert and Cec, leaving only the bride and groom to make their way. After the ceremony they would arrive at the Windsor for a luncheon, and then Mairi would take Anthony back to Wardlow while the couple spent the evening in a hotel suite.

Phryne headed down, finding Jack already waiting at the foot of the stairs, hat in hand. He wore a grey suit, one usually reserved for court appearances, and a red and cream tie. As she reached the bottom step she reached out to adjust it, unable to resist the urge to touch him. Tie straightened—as if it had been crooked to begin with—she laid her palm against his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath it.

“Do you have the ring?” she asked quietly.

He patted his pocket, then nodded, seemingly at a loss for words. She’d seen the ring, of course; it was an unobtrusive Art Deco style with sapphires and onyx, small enough that she could wear it without comment. Jack had asked her if she’d minded the purchase, assuring her that she was free to wear it or not, but he had seen it and thought of her.

“ _I thought you might like the reminder that you are always you_ ,” he had said, the tips of his ears blushing slightly.

“ _It’s perfect_ ,” Phryne had replied, and meant it.

In her handbag, Phryne had a small sapphire and onyx tie pin; they had decided that a ring was impractical given his job, and would reveal too much to potential suspects. Nobody would notice a piece of jewelry on a woman, but it would be remarkable on a man. He’d seemed slightly disappointed with the conclusion though, so Phryne had purchased the tie pin, thinking that he might like the reminder that she always had his back, even if she was not there.

He still had not spoken, so she took his hat from his hands and placed it rakishly on his head.

“There,” she exhaled, her heart thudding at the look on his face. She brushed her thumb against his cheek. “Perfect.”

“You… you look incredible, Phryne.”

She had a feeling that he would have said the same if she’d come down the stairs in nothing but a burlap sack, and with equal sincerity. She pressed a chaste kiss against his lips, determined not to be delayed.

“It’s time,” she said.

The journey was short; Phryne drove the Hispano, stealing small glances at Jack as she did so. His head was tilted back against the seat, eyes closed and the small hint of a smile on his lips as he basked in the summer sunlight. He was so handsome.

“Eyes on the road please, Miss Fisher,” he said dryly, not stirring from his repose. “Otherwise we may never get there alive.”

She laughed, assuring him that she had every intention of bothering him with her driving for years to come, and his smile grew. They arrived soon enough, and Phryne parked before alighting; Jack met her on the pavement in front of the courthouse.  

They looked up at the enormous building.

“Together?” he asked, motioning the stone staircase with a familiar tilt of his head.

His eyes were filled with tenderness and adoration and awe, and she reached for his arm.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [For the post-wedding shenanigans, check out SarahToo's magnificent The Whole of the World.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7184615/chapters/16305998)


	20. Chapter 20

Once the wheels began to turn, it all went surprisingly quickly. Phryne submitted the medical examinations and character references and the home visits were conducted. The latter went particularly well, in a truly horrific sort of way; the well-meaning interviewer clearly did not have the background information or two brain cells to rub together, and asked Squirrel if he wanted a new mum. It was a word they chose not to use around him because it left him distressed, and even after nearly three months he turned to the door with hope in his eyes.

“Mum?”

“Afraid not, Ant,” Jack said quietly.

“Where mum? _Where_?”

“She’s had to go away. But she’s asked us to take care of you.”

Jack's voice was calm and reassuring, but the glare he directed at the interviewer was anything but.

“Where mum?”

“Tell you what, lad. Why don’t you and I go find Cleopatra?” Jack said. “Let mims talk with this nice gentleman.”

“No!” Anthony shouted, suddenly furious as he clung onto Phryne’s arm. “No! No go!”

Jack sighed, standing up. “Shall I go get Cleopatra then?”

Anthony lunged forward, one hand still on Phryne’s arm. It yanked with surprising force.

“No go! Mims, Dack, me!” he growled.

Phryne and Jack exchanged a glance. This was new, though not entirely unexpected.

“Tell you what, Squirrel,” Phryne said, feeling rather like she was attempting to talk down a murderer. “Why don’t we leave this nice man here with a biscuit and go get Cleopatra together. Mims, Jack and you, yes?”

“Mims, Dack, Kerl,” he repeated, relaxing his grip slightly.

Jack picked him up, hugging him tight, and Phryne stood.

“In the future, you might be better served reading the case notes _before_ interviews,” Phryne said curtly. “If you need anything while we are gone, Mr. Butler will look after you.”

She swept from the room, Jack following behind, and heading towards the nursery. Anthony had come to rely less on his beloved dog, at least within the house, which was a fortunate development as it allowed Mr. Butler to wash the thing before it began to stink. Phryne sincerely hoped that it was on the bed, otherwise they would need to mount a full-scale search the damned thing.

It was, small mercies, perched on his pillow, and Phryne quickly picked it up and handed it over.

“There we are, squirrelly boy. One Cleopatra, one Mims, one Dack. All present and accounted for.”

She reached up, smiling reassuringly as she brushed his hair from his face. The fear seemed to have disappeared as quickly as it had arisen, though his chubby fist holding fast onto Jack’s lapel told her he had not quite regained his equilibrium.

He stayed close to both Phryne and Jack for the rest of the day, going so far as requiring both of them at his bedtime routine. Phryne found that she did not have the heart to deny him that small comfort, though she mouthed over his head to tell Jack that bringing him into their bedroom was absolutely off the table.

Jack just smiled at her and began to sing a lullaby; watching it unfold and caressing Anthony’s hair, it hit Phryne quite suddenly: she was genuinely _happy_.

 

———

 

Phryne and Jack looked across the desk at Mr. Martins—the elder, thankfully—fingers laced together just out of his line of sight. He was explaining that their signature was needed on the adoption application, then it would be filed and an official court date provided. Given the situation it would be straightforward—there was sufficient proof that there was no suitable next of kin—so as long as Welfare approved the situation, the date might be as early as the following week.  

Phryne nodded, then took the proffered sheaf of paper. She glanced over it, more out of habit than any doubt of her solicitor’s aptitude. It was all there: names, dates, and Anthony’s name as it would appear on the amended birth certificate.

_Anthony John Fisher-Robinson._

She quickly extracted a fountain pen from her handbag, signing in all the relevant places and attempting to ignore the trembling in her hand. When it was done, she passed both to Jack, stood and excused herself.

She tried very hard not to run from the office.

Jack found her five minutes later in the corridor, leaning against the wall.

“Phryne?” he asked quietly. “Whatever is the matter? You fled like the hounds of hell were after you.”

“That obvious?”

His smile was slightly lopsided. “Perhaps only to me.”

Phryne exhaled loudly, the inexplicable tightness in her chest twisting further.

“I didn’t realise his middle name is John.”

“It’s probably the most common name in the English speaking world,” Jack pointed out, obviously puzzled by her point.

“It’s also your name.”

“Ahh,” he nodded, extending his arms to draw her in.

She went silently, resting her forehead against his chest, and breathing in his familiar scent. For several minutes they stood in the corridor, not moving, and her entire world was the feel of his wool suit against her skin and the smell of pomade and musk. Eventually, she pulled away, just enough to look into his eyes.

“What are we going to do if they say no, Jack?” she asked quietly. It was too perfect.

“Why would they say no? You’re rich—”

“We’re rich,” she corrected automatically, no real bite in it.

“We’re rich. We’re respectable. Your previous ward is currently at university,” His lips quirked. “There’s no official record of your life as a serial break-and-enterer.”

She laughed despite herself.

“But I’m not exactly mother material.”

“Phryne, love, that is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” she challenged.

“When the blithering idiot from Welfare came and stuck his foot in it, what did you do?”

What _had_ she done? She’d tried to forget the meeting as quickly as possible; they’d gotten an unofficial and therefore unreliable report from Ed Prentice that they had passed, but it had been a disaster.

“Phryne, you perfectly demonstrated your kindness and your aptitude. He needed you and you were there. That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not. It’s worse, even,” she said, his words causing a frantic flutter in her chest instead of the intended calmness.

“How is that worse?” he asked.

“Because they could take him away!” she blurted, pulling back with a flail of limbs.

It wasn’t until the words were out that she realised that was her concern. Her chest hurt. Jack seemed utterly perplexed, his brow furrowing.

“Why?”

“Because!”

Jack never took long to catch up, she had to give him credit for that. He smiled wryly—thank heavens, because if he’d looked at her with pity she might have lost it entirely—and tilted his head, one hand reaching out to run up her arm.

“No kid from Collingwood is ever going to trust Welfare.”

She sighed.

“No. At least not this kid. I’m sure they could find some objection to the petition if they were inclined—my suitability as a mother when I like drinking and dancing, or because they don’t believe the marriage paperwork situation, or—”

“And we’d appeal,” he broke in, calm and confident and steadying. Damn the man. “As many times as you wanted, or until you were fed up and bought their cooperation. But they won’t.”  

“You can’t know that.”

“I know _you_. The mountains themselves would kneel in defeat before you would.”

And damn him again, because his unshakable faith in her brought tears to her eyes. She blinked furiously to clear them, balling her hands into tight fists to release some of the tension. A steadying breath, then another.

“I can’t lose… I don’t want to lose him,” she admitted, casting her eyes downward.

Cannot lose or do not want to, she was uncertain which was worse. She loved many people, but none who depended on her so thoroughly; it was not an entirely pleasant thought. And yet… and yet she would not go back to that first night and send him away. The knot in her chest thudded painfully, threatening to burst through her breastbone.

She saw Jack’s feet shift closer, then felt his strong arms envelop her in another hug. She waited for his teasing chastisement or reassurance—either would be justified—but all he did was hold her.

“Let’s get your hat and coat,” he said after a minute. “We should have enough time to take him to the foreshore for an ice cream before dinner if we leave now.”

She stepped away again and nodded, feeling much more herself. They barely spoke as they drove home to Wardlow; Jack was behind the wheel, Phryne’s attentions turned inward, neither needing to say anything more. When he had parked, Jack reached over and grasped her hand.

“Name one person who has ever stopped Phryne Fisher from having what she set her mind on.”

Murdoch Foyle. Rene DuBois. Henry Fisher. Dead, dead, half a world away and no longer holding power over her. It helped.

“You,” she said lightly.

“Me?”

“Oh yes,” she smiled, extracting her hand from his so she could rest it suggestively high on his thigh. “I wanted you in my bed for such a long time.”

He swallowed hard, and she chuckled; watching him react to her flirtations never grew dull.

“I think you can safely say that you’ve had me in your bed. And _our_ bed, our parlour, your car, _my_ car, the kitchen, the library, the pool showers at your aunt’s house—”

She kissed him fiercely, tangling her fingers into the hair and pulling herself across the seats to sit on his lap. His own hands spanned her back, holding her close. After a moment, they pulled away.

“In that case, Jack,” she said, chest heaving, “I guess I always get what I want.”

“Should we go inside, then?”

“Mm, I think so. You promised me ice cream.”

She toyed with his tie as she said it, looking up through her lashes to give the delivery maximum carnality. He shifted.

“In which case, Phryne, perhaps you should go indoors and retrieve our companion while I wait here for—” he blushed, and she nearly cackled as she glanced towards his lap.

“Yes, perhaps you should wait here.”

She climbed out the driver’s side door, heading up the path. She heard laughter from around the back of the house and headed towards it. Anthony was in the garden with Aggie, Theo and Dot, the three children playing some sort of game that appeared to involved chasing each other around while Dot worked on some embroidery.

“Whatever are you doing, Squirrel?” Phryne called out.

Anthony stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to look at her.

“Mims!”

He tore towards her, barely stopping to extend his arms for her to pick him up. She caught him and held tightly, the ache in her chest suddenly breaking completely.

“Hello, darling,” she said quietly.

She still had no idea what she was doing, or why, but she was certain of one thing.

“You’re home with us,” she whispered as he gave her a large, sloppy kiss on the cheek. Which was rather revolting and would have ruined the mood entirely, if she wasn’t so focused on her own words. She met his eyes, dark and sparkling, and gave him a wink. “How do you feel about ice cream?”

 

———

 

It took three days for Phryne’s solicitor to contact them with a court date, set for a week hence. They would need to state their case, but it was more a formality than any real concern, and Jack watched his wife orchestrate a series of changes with her usual single-mindedness; it was decided that the downstairs nursery was not practical long term, so it would remain for the Collins children and as a playroom, but one of the upstairs guest rooms would be converted to Anthony’s bedroom.

“There’s no point in beginning the changes before it’s all done and dusted,” Phryne said, “but it it is arranged now we can have it finished within a day or so. At the very least the room needs fresh paint, so that can be done ahead of time.”

The smallest guest room was repainted, the cushion on the window seat replaced, and furniture—a bed, chest of drawers, and bookshelves—selected and arranged to be paid for and delivered the day after the case was heard. Then she purchased an almost obscene number of clothes—Ant’s wardrobe was easily three times the size of Jack’s, and that was just the things Jack knew she’d purchased—and what Jack was pretty certain amounted to half a bookstore.

She met his eyes as she carried several of the parcels into the house.

“Jack, darling, I could either look over the petition details for the twenty-eighth time, or I could go shopping,” she said breezily. “I didn’t even manage to stumble across a suspicious death while I was out, which is rather disappointing.”

“Yes, how dreadful for you,” Jack said dryly.

“Oh, don’t look like that,” she scolded, placing her purchases on the floor and coming to sit across his lap. “You haven’t a clue what to do with yourself without a case either. All I’ve had lately are stolen dogs, and since my police source is living the life of Riley—don’t give me that look, you know I’m teasing—I am at loose ends.”

He wrapped his arms around her, pressing a line of kisses against her neck. It was good, really, that she was making plans for the future; better than her uncertainty days before.

“Just until tomorrow,” he said. “Then it will be over.”

She sighed. “I know. Our last night of freedom.”

Jack tensed slightly at her words, and she turned soft and pliant in his arms.

“I’m _teasing_ , Jack. I want this. I want it so much that it scares me, and I haven’t the foggiest if I’ll ever be good at it. I certainly don’t think that I’ll enjoy every minute of it. But he belongs here; I want him here.”

“Me too,” he agreed quietly.

“That might be the first time you’ve admitted it,” Phryne observed, her tone mild but the look in her eyes saying something else.

He couldn’t bring himself to think of what it might be, so he kissed her. Thoroughly. Repeatedly. Until her eyes had fluttered shut and he could feel the hard peak of her nipple against his palm as he caressed.

“If this is our last night of freedom,” he said breathlessly, “perhaps we should take advantage of it.”

She opened her eyes, blue-green and lust-filled, and grinned.

“That, Jack Robinson, sounds like an excellent plan.”


	21. Chapter 21

The next morning, Jack woke very early. Phryne was, as usual, sprawled across him and snoring; he lay in bed for some time, just enjoying the sensation. Eventually he shifted slightly, aware that they had a court appearance at ten, and she grumbled.   

“No,” she muttered. “Bad husband.”

“Pardon?” he asked.

She opened one eye, looking at him. “Bad husband. Good bed.”

He smiled broadly. “Say it again.”

“Whaaat?” she asked, brow furrowing. He suspected that she’d hate that the word brought to mind was ‘adorable’, so he kept the thought to himself. “You want me to call you a bad husband again?”

“Yes.”

“You are a strange, strange man. Go to sleep.”

“I could make it worth the effort,” Jack suggested, brushing the hair off her neck and replacing it with his lips.

She gave an inquisitive hum, eyes still resolutely closed.

“I could kiss you here?” he asked, nose brushing against the skin of her upper arm. “Or here, perhaps?”

“Lower,” she said. “Start at the wrist and I’ll consider it.”

He raised her arm to his mouth, scraping his teeth gently across her pulse point. She arched towards him, ever so slightly, and he laughed.

“You’re magnificent,” he told her, slowly making his way up her arm, minding every soft exhalation and shift of her body. He paused when he reached her shoulder once more, waiting for her word.

“Don’t you bloody dare stop now, Jack Robinson,” she threatened.

“Pardon?”

“Don’t. Stop.”

“Try again, Mrs. Fisher-Robinson.”

She groaned.

“You are a sentimental idiot,” she muttered, lips quirking into a smile. “You’re lucky I’m far too sleepy to protest, husband.”   

He traced a finger across her clavicle, down her breastbone, across the taut expanse of her stomach; she whimpered, legs falling open in a silent plea.

“A sentimental idiot, am I?” he teased, bending over to press kisses against her jaw.

“The most,” she replied; she had still not opened her eyes, though he suspected it was mostly pretense at this point.

His finger slid down, finding her soft and warm and wet. One stroke. Two. A pause.

“You started it, sleepy,” he whispered into her ear.

“I am not responsible for anything I say before my first hot beverage in the morning,” she protested, moving her hips to push against his still hand. “ _God_ , Jack! _Move_!”

He did, coaxing a shuddering climax from her within moments; when it passed her eyes opened, and she smirked.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Morning, love,” he said. “It’s time to get up.”

They showered together—taking longer than necessary to simply get clean—and then dressed in a companionable silence before heading downstairs. Mr. Butler had both coffee and tea prepared; Phryne poured them each a drink, then sat at the table with the day’s newspaper.

“Oh, there was a m—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Jack cut in with a laugh. “No doubt you’ll find some intriguing situation and then we’ll both wish I was working.”

She pouted.

“Very well then, Jack. What am I to do with myself today?”

“Well, I thought we’d go for a walk. Maybe down to the courthouse. See if there are any interesting cases on the docket.”

Phryne laughed. “I suppose we could.”

“Did Jane say if she’d be able to make it?” asked Jack; he knew Phryne had spoken with her almost every day since she’d moved into the flat and begun university.

“She has classes until eleven, but she’ll meet us so we can go for lunch. Says Ivy might be able to make it too,” Phryne replied, then looked behind Jack. “Morning, Squirrel.”

Turning in his seat, Jack saw Ant by the door. The boy smiled, hesitating for a moment before running over and scrambling onto the chair beside Phryne. The three of them ate breakfast, then Phryne gave the boy a conspiratorial look.

“Shall we go get dressed while Dack finishes his newspaper?” she asked, and Ant nodded enthusiastically.

Jack watched them go, wondering what the hell Phryne had up her sleeve this time.

 

———

 

“Will you stop squirming?” Phryne asked, trying to button Anthony’s shirt. “Honestly, I am very glad that I’m not the one dressing you every morning.”

“Dack! Dack hat!”

Phryne shook her head. “Dack hat once you have the rest on. You’ll look just like him when we’re done.”

She had realised that she hadn’t a clue what boys Anthony’s age actually wore—the first day she had gone out and bought a near-replica of the outfit he’d had on when she had met him at the crime scene, a few other pieces had come into the house through Dot, and Mairi had bought him some sort of short suit for the wedding—so when Phryne had replenished his wardrobe she’d ended up asking a shop worker.  

The woman had shown her a selection; short trousers with shirts and vests, mostly, and some jumpers. Flat caps for millinery, though it would take a miracle to convince Anthony to relinquish his beloved fedora. Very little had changed from Phryne’s own childhood in many regards, not that any boys from Collingwood had been well-dressed.

“And of course,” the woman said, “for formal occasions, more and more boys seem to be emulating their father in suits with long trousers.”

And that was how Phryne found herself attempting to wrangle a wolverine into a charcoal grey waistcoat. She hoped Jack would appreciate the effort. Which he very likely would not, because he was a man and had even less knowledge of children’s fashion than she did, but the sentiment was there. He was so _cautious_ about this whole matter when he thought she was not looking, as if waiting for matters to go awry, but when his real feelings broke through… oh, it was glorious. She had every intention of seeing it often, and if sartorial statements helped in that matter… well, clothes proclaimed the man.

When she finally succeeded in her task—in hindsight she should have asked Mr. Butler for assistance—she popped Squirrel’s fedora on his head.

“There you are. Dack hat.”

“Dayoo,” Anthony grinned at her, eyes squinting.

“You’re welcome, Squirrel. It’s a very big day today, you know.”

He could not even begin to grasp the implications, but saying it aloud made Phryne realise that it was the point of no return. She could—she _would_ —be recorded as the boy’s mother by the end of the day. She picked him up, pressing a kiss to his cheek and leaving her lip print behind.

“You might need a handkerchief for that,” she laughed as he rubbed at the waxy mark. “Perhaps Dack has a small one he can lend you. Shall we go see?”

Ant nodded, and Phryne carried him back to the dining room just as Jack finished the paper. He looked up, and smiled broadly.

“You look very sharp, Ant,” he said, folding the paper and setting it aside.

“Dack me!”

The smile fell, his eyes closed, and Jack swallowed hard before looking at Anthony a second time.

“I see Mims has gotten to you,” he said, his smile small and soft now. “Come here and we’ll get that cleaned up.”

Phryne released the boy, who dutifully made his way over to Jack and allowed his face to be wiped. As he cleaned, Jack said something to Squirrel that made the boy giggle and Jack chuckled in response; Phryne smirked at them both.

“Mr. Fisher-Robinson, I highly recommend you get ready to go if you don’t wish to be late,” she said firmly, and he looked up at her confusion. She winked, and his answering grin was lopsided and sweet.

He stood, ordered Ant to go find his shoes, and came to stand beside her.

“You don’t need to keep doing that, Phryne.”

She shook her head, watching him from the corner of her eye to see how he reacted.

“I know. And I wouldn’t get used to it, if I were you, but…”  

“But?”

“Whether you’re my husband or not doesn’t make a lick of difference to who we are,” she said. “It never has. But, maybe, just for today… I like to say it.”

It was bordering on nauseatingly sentimental, but the smile on his face made it worth the concession. She playfully nudged his arm with her shoulder, then went to retrieve her hat.

When she came back downstairs he and Anthony were ready to go.

“Very dapper, the both of you,” she said. “Off we go or we’ll be late.”

Jack gave her a sly grin as he opened the door. “You mean you _can_ arrive on time?”

“I make it a point not to, under most circumstances,” she laughed, stepping out into the summer sunlight. She pulled a pair of sunglasses from her handbag, donning them before turning back to Jack. “It rather detracts from my entrances.”

He smirked and nodded his head in acknowledgment before following her out the door, Anthony holding his hand. The ride to the courthouse was quick, and they met with Phryne’s solicitor to go over the details once more before they were due before the judge. The room was quiet as the man considered the information before him; there is very little for them to do but sit and wait, answering questions when they were posed but otherwise silent.  Anthony’s court-appointed guardian ad litem sat nearby; the boy had refused to leave Phryne and Jack’s side, clutching both of them with tight fists; Phryne wasn’t certain whether it would help or hinder their case, but she had no intention of sending him to sit with a stranger without good reason.

The judge eventually looked up and fixed them with a watery stare.

“And you swear that everything presented in these documents is the truth?” he wheezed.

Phryne smiled, ignoring the tightness in her chest, and assured him it was.

“Well,” the man said, hands spreading out to gesture towards the documents before him, “I believe you have amply proven your suitability. Your standing in the community, your financials, your medical and home reports, your letters of recommendation. Application granted.”

It took Phryne a moment to process his words, and when she did she held her breath and waited for the last-minute denouement of a secret relative or the sham of their marital situation or… anything. It didn’t come, not as the judge signed the application; not as he explained that the adoption would go on a register kept by the government statist and an amended birth record with their details listed under parents would be left with the Office of Births, Deaths, and Marriages; not as they gathered their hats and left the room.  Once outside she was met by Jane and Ivy both, her daughter hugging her tightly in greeting.

“Miss Phryne?” she said, the question evident in her eyes.

Phryne had been concerned how Jane would take the news when it had been announced, but the girl—young woman, Phryne corrected herself—had grinned cheekily, her rough edges never quite worn away, and said that it sounded marvelous that they would have someone to pester them now that she was gone. Phryne had pointed out that this was the third meal Jane had eaten at Wardlow that week, and it hardly counted as gone if Phryne still had to feed her.

“Oh, application granted,” Phryne said, the words still not quite penetrating the fog in her mind.

Jane squealed in excitement and hugged Phryne again, then moved on to hug Jack—who looked utterly baffled by the development, but happy—and Anthony himself, held in Jack’s arms. Then Ivy, who had hung back until this point, pulled a camera from her bag and declared that a family photo must be taken.

“Excellent idea!” Phryne exclaimed, looping her arm through Jack’s and smiling broadly.

Jane went to move away, but Phryne caught her elbow.

“ _Family_ picture,” she said pointedly.

“Oh, Miss Phryne—”

“Jane,” Jack interjected. It was the first time he’d spoken since the adoption was granted, and his voice sounded tight with emotion. “I would never presume that you would… feel obliged to be in this photo, but I would like it immensely if you were.”

Jane blushed furiously, and Phryne was fairly certain she saw tears in her daughter’s eyes.  

“Well, Jack, if you insist,” said Jane with much bravado. “But I yield under great persuasion.”

Jack laughed and Phryne groaned. _Two_ of them. She’d have to sway Squirrel to her side before Jack stuck a copy of _Shakespeare for Children_ in his hands.

 

———

 

After a long and very enthusiastic lunch, Phryne and Jack headed back to Wardlow with Anthony. Phryne excused herself, citing a need to change and complete some correspondence. Jack gave her a doubtful look, and she sighed.

“I need to write to Mother and Father,” she explained. “I have no doubt Aunt Prudence has already informed them of the scheme, probably complete with wailing about the family bloodline despite her happiness, but I had no interest in mentioning it to them until it was complete. I can just imagine my mother’s gloating—’Phryne, dear, it’s about time you settled down. I’m glad your inspector made you see sense.’—and Father… he’d probably attempt to find some way to exploit it to his own advantage. They don’t get to ruin this.”

“I’d like to see them try against you,” Jack said, giving her elbow a squeeze. “Don’t take too long?”

She removed her hat, fluffing her hair quickly.

“I’ll get changed and write it in the parlour, if you want to entertain Squirrel in there,” she offered. “It might help.”

“If you need to be alone—”

“I’ll bring it through,” she said, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes. “But I do appreciate the offer.”

She rejoined them a few minutes later, paper and pen in hand. She curled onto the chaise, and Jack could feel her glancing up on occasion to watch him and Anthony reading quietly. Eventually she finished, huffing as she addressed and sealed the envelope.

“Well, that’s that. I expect that Mother will break her telephone aversion to harangue me for details once this latter arrives, but I can always claim a poor connection of the line,” she smiled; she was not happy about the prospect, Jack knew, but she was also not uncertain in the least.

She motioned him to come towards her, so Jack slid Ant from his lap and walked over. She caught his hand and stood, moving into his embrace.

“Now, Jack, darling… I think perhaps you have a letter to write yourself,” she said, smiling up at him as she stroked his lapel. She clearly read his confusion, because she added, “Rosie needs to hear this from _you_.”

Jack felt like an utter cad for not thinking of it. His friendship with Rosie was limited to letters every few months, usually to update her on her father’s health—she’d refused to contact her father after his sentencing, but did still worry—and other events, but it was still a friendship. She had remarried and moved to Sydney with her new husband and two stepdaughters, and appeared to be very happy; he was still unsure how she would take such news.

“Don’t you dare start blaming yourself for not thinking of it, Jack,” Phryne—his _wife_ —scolded. “It’s all been such a whirlwind, and none of us could have imagined that we’d be here. And I know that it is likely to be difficult for you. So I will sit beside you, or across the room, or put Anthony down for a nap and leave you alone, whatever you need to make this easier for _you_ , alright? Just say the word.”

Phryne was so often a flame, quick and bright and liable to burn you just as quickly as warm you, and he loved her for it. But on occasion… on occasion, she would be the steady ember when his soul needed it.

“I think I’ll go to the library,” he said quietly, and she stroked his lapel once more before moving away. No chastisement, no recriminations, just unwavering support; he was exceptionally lucky to have her by his side.

He ruffled Ant’s hair as he walked by the armchair, the boy looking at the book they had been reading together, then left the room and headed towards the library with the small writing desk he often used. He sat in the chair, pulling out stationery and his favourite fountain pen, as if that would make the process simpler, and began to write.

 

> _Dear Rosie,_
> 
> _Several months ago there was an investigation where_

 

No. Another piece of paper. Where to start?

 

> _Dear Rosie,_
> 
> _As the rumour mills of both Melbourne and Sydney have no doubt told you_

 

Not that either. After all their years together she deserved to hear this news from him, and he had failed to do even think of it. Right. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think.   

 

> _Dear Rosie,_
> 
> _As of today the courts of Victoria_

 

He crumpled that one up and threw it into the empty fire grate. The courts had nothing to do with it, not really. He loosened his tie, removed his jacket. It was so simple. It should be so simple. But it was not.

It was stumbling, tipsy and giddy, across the threshold of their tiny bungalow the night of their wedding, Rosie throwing her arms wide and laughing about how they would fill it. It was dashed hopes—he’d lost count, in the end, of how many times they had thought maybe and how many times they were certain—and five years apart when they grew into people the other didn’t recognise. It was clinging to those halcyon days through mud and exhaustion, then coming home to find the laughter gone, the memories—war and happiness both—echoing so loudly in the walls that he could not sleep. It was the quiet desperation as they tried, again and again even as they argued, convinced that it would be the answer they needed; it was the moment they had both said _enough_ , Rosie sobbing in the bed—newly returned from the hospital—as Jack left for work. (It wasn’t even his shift; he’d been there three hours before he even noticed, coming to awareness quite suddenly.) It was their vain attempts to pretend that it didn’t matter, that they were content with just the two of them—and it might have been true, if they had been the same Jack and Rosie who’d married over a decade before. It was her moving in with her sister, both of them pretending it was for Joan’s sake. It was standing in a courtroom with his failures laid before him and still unable to devote his full attention even this one final time, Phryne’s quiet “ _I need you to remind me not to be afraid of shadows_ ” thudding through his veins.

It was fan dances and flirtations and motorcar wrecks and weeks apart that left a gaping wound he’d been so certain he would never feel again, and somehow finding his way to the other side stronger but only because they were in it together and not entirely sure the strength was his own. It was the realisation that he cared for Rosie, would always be there because twenty years of friendship could not be forgotten by a declaration from the court, but that he turned to _Phryne_ when he needed a soft place to lay his head—the irony that this came in the form of a modern woman determined to never commit to a man did not elude him then or now. It was “ _Come after me_ ” in an airfield, a challenge and a promise and a need to fly—hers or his, he was never quite sure—and the knowledge that the only certainty at the other end was uncertainty. It was London, that look on Phryne’s face as he disembarked the ship, radiant as the sun that did not shine in the English sky, that look that told him that she loved him, that she _would_ love him, that she would not clip her wings even for him and the knowledge that he would build his own wings of feathers and wax and risk Icarus’s fate before he ever asked her to.

It was happiness, true blinding _happiness_ that he had almost forgotten the feel of. It was coming home together, facing the world together, tackling criminals and lazy Sunday mornings with equal vigour. It was family found and family lost and forging a new brilliant life, thumbing their nose at anyone or anything that tried to tear them apart; he had allowed that once, and he was damned if he’d allow it again. It was a crime scene only a few months earlier, the stench of blood and a hysterical child, hearing the boy’s name and thinking—he would admit it now—that if they had continued the pregnancy he had always been fond of the name, and at the same time so grateful that they had not. It was tearing down the lies of Anthony’s aunt, almost missed, and finding the boy in his house, his refuge, that evening and being too tired to really think. It was all those months since, for better or worse, and Phryne’s voice pushing him into the unknown once more with “ _He has us_ ” as if it was a fundamental truth. It was wanting, wanting so _badly_ to believe and being unable to do so even as the pieces fell into place so easily; her hand in the crook of his arm as the approached the registrar, interviews and meetings and applications. It was sitting in a courtroom before a judge and being told yes, finally _yes_.

_Dear Rosie_ , he penned carefully; he would write the truth and then revise it, remove the rawness and the grief and the joy until it was nothing more than a missive between friends.

 

>   _Dear Rosie,_
> 
> _Phryne and I have a son._

 

He stared at the words, uncomprehending. _I have a son._ And he crumbled.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, barring tomorrow's epilogue, this is the final chapter. Apologies for the delay. I will thank you all properly with the epilogue--I am currently far too emotional to do so. But thank you, THANK YOU all for reading and commenting and sticking with this story.

After Jack excused himself to retreat to the library, Phryne read Squirrel a story; it was still not a preferred activity, but it allowed her to shut her mind off and focus on other things. She could practically see Jack’s reservations, so carefully constructed around him, and had no idea what to do about them. When he had insisted that she be Anthony’s mother, unconventional though she may approach it, she had not thought to demand the same from him. It would not do. Reaching the end of _Snow White_ , Phryne looked down to find Anthony yawning.

“Naptime, Squirrel,” she said. “We’ve had ever such a busy day, haven’t we?”

“Bed, Mims. Bed,” he agreed.

Phryne stood and picked him up, carrying him towards the nursery. She paused before the library door but heard nothing, so continued on. In the room she removed his tie and jacket, telling him all about what would soon be his new bedroom. Then she tucked Anthony in, making sure he had Cleopatra, and sat for a minute just to watch him—his eyes screwed up tight, giggly fake snores, a smudge of dirt on his nose that seemed to have appeared spontaneously—and felt a ridiculous swell of love. He was theirs. Somehow, despite everything that had happened, he was theirs. It was not a possessive thought—Phryne remembered all too well how such a sense of ownership had been the catalyst to his arrival—merely a comforting one. He belonged with them, not to them. She leant over, pressing a kiss to his forehead, then stroked his hair.

“I am a very lucky Mims,” she said. “And you are a very lucky Squirrel.”

When he began to drift off, she retreated to the parlour—stopping at the library door once more, but not knocking—and picked up a book. Jack came in an hour later; Phryne looked up to find his eyes were red, as if he’d been crying, and resisted the impulse to leap to her feet and demand answers.

“Where’s the boy?” he asked, and by his voice he’d definitely been crying.

“Asleep,” replied Phryne. “It’s been a long day for everyone.”

He nodded, coming to sit beside her on the chaise. She laid her hand on his knee, and his hand stretched out to catch it.

“We have a son,” he said quietly.

“We do,” she confirmed, biting her tongue before she let slip a teasing comment; _It’s a little late to take him back now_ came to mind.

“How?”

“Well, Jack, when a mummy and a daddy love each other very much, sometimes they go to crime scenes—”

He barked a laugh.

“Be serious, Phryne,” he scolded, smiling.

“I have no intention of being serious. This is quite possibly the most ridiculous, terrifying, foolish thing I’ve ever done, and if I don’t keep my sense of humour I’m liable to lose my mind.”

“This isn’t even the most ridiculous, terrifying, foolish thing you’ve done this week,” he countered, even though she’d been shockingly sedate as of late; somehow she did not imagine the courts looking kindly on an applicant showing up with a new arrest record. “But please, please keep your sense of humour. Because this is madness.”

“It is, yes.”

“We’re parents. We’re _married_.”

“That’s not a problem, is it?” she asked; she found she suddenly had no desire to tease him on the matter.

“No! No… no, this is…”

She cast a glance at his face, noticing the tears in his eyes.

“Unexpected?” she offered.

“Very.”

“But not unwelcome.”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Not unwelcome in the least.”

 

———

 

When Anthony woke from his nap, Jack offered to take him for a walk. He had Rosie’s letter to post—he was not completely satisfied by what he had ultimately written, but it would have to suffice for now—and a long walk seemed like just the thing to clear his head.

“I’d join you, but Mac is stopping by for a drink. Wants to hear how today went, understandably. But I can—”

“Don’t you dare cancel,” he smiled. “We’ll have dinner out and leave you two in peace.”

She squeezed his hand.

“You’re alright?”

“It’s… a lot,” he admitted, glancing to where Ant was playing with Cleopatra, still in half his suit. “But yes, I’m alright. You?”

“I’ll be much better after a cocktail,” she laughed, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “And, perhaps, a bottle of champagne and some very thorough celebrations tonight?”

“I’ll run him ragged to make sure he sleeps,” Jack replied with a smirk, grateful that some things were a constant. “Ant, go fetch your shoes please.”

He took his son for a slow stroll down The Esplanade, stopping briefly to post Jack’s letter to Rosie, and ended up at Luna Park. Ant’s eyes opened wide at the giant clown marking the entrance, gripping Jack’s hand harder. Jack picked him up, adjusting his hat.

“It’s fine, lad. We don’t have to go in if you don’t want to, but I think there’s ice cream.”

Ant’s eyes lit up.

“Ice?”

“I thought that might sell it,” Jack laughed.

They spent the next several hours at the park, eating and exploring and going on some of the smaller rides. Ant adored the carousel, dragging Jack back to it time after time and selecting the same horse—an enormous grey one with gilded armour that Jack thought looked particularly ridiculous—every time. Eventually the sun began to set and Anthony’s energy flagged.

“Up? Up?” he asked, tugging on Jack’s hand. Jack picked him up, and Ant cuddled into his shoulder contentedly. “Home Dack?”

“Home, Ant,” confirmed Jack.

The boy was asleep by the time they left the park, one hand curled around Jack’s neck. The walk home was much shorter without having to match toddler speeds, and soon enough Wardlow came into view. By coincidence Mac was just leaving, and their paths crossed at the front door.

“He looks comfortable,” she commented, nodding to the sleeping child.

“Yes, unfortunately my shoulder disagrees,” laughed Jack, then sobered slightly. “Is Phryne…?”

“Relieved,” the doctor said with a sly smile. “Though I’ll deny I ever said as much. I never thought I’d say this, but it suits her.”

“She’s a remarkable woman.”

Mac gave him a slightly fond look, which in his experience always meant trouble.

“She is. And she’s found her equal in you, god help us all,” Mac said with a dryness that could only mean she was covering some deeper emotion. “Congratulations, inspector.”

And with that she nodded and headed down the stairs. Jack stepped inside and nodded to Phryne in the parlour, then carried Ant through to bed. The boy protested sleepily as Jack shifted him onto the mattress.

“ _O, hush thee, my babie_ ,” Jack recited quietly, the lullaby coming almost by rote.

It had always been Jack’s favourite, as a child, a song that meant warmth and home and the sweet smells of his mother’s baking. And now he was singing it to his own child in the most unlikely of circumstances. There were so many opportunities stretched before them, silly ones and important ones both, and the tears came once more as he finished the song. Blinking them back, he brushed the hair from Anthony’s forehead and kissed him.

“Love you, my boy,” he said quietly.

Then he stood and headed back to the parlour, where Phryne was waiting with a salacious smile.

“Hello, Jack,” she said, sashaying over to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him thoroughly. “I was beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”

“Not at all, love. I believe I was promised champagne?”

Phryne laughed and moved away to grab the bottle.   

 

———

 

The next few weeks were taken up by the mundanities of decorating Anthony’s room and making various legal and logistical arrangements—setting up a trust and guardianship if they were to both die before he reached eighteen, for starters—but in mid-February they decided to spend a week on Queenscliff. Jane and Ivy intended to join them Friday evening, so Phryne left them the Hispano and—after some spirited debate about whether or not they would need a second car—took the train instead.

Anthony stood on the platform, clapping his hands as the train pulled into the station.

“Choo! Choo! Mims! Dack! Look! Choo!”

Phryne winced internally, but smiled at him nonetheless. He seemed to have found his voice, constantly talking about things he had once regarded warily; it was a positive development, though far noisier than she had expected. It was not loud, however, so she reassured herself that it could be worse and fervently hoped it wouldn’t become so.

“Wishing we’d caught the same train as Mr. Butler?” Jack asked quietly behind her; the man in question had gone ahead to complete shopping and set up the holiday cottage.

“It would have been simpler,” Phryne replied with a smile. “Who knew that man was an expert on steam engines?”

“The list of topics he has not mastered is by far the shorter one.”

Thankfully their journey was uneventful—Squirrel spent much of the time watching the scenery from the window, chattering about all the things they passed—and they arrived in the popular holiday destination just after noon. Just enough time to purchase some fish and chips and eat on the beach; Anthony ate about three bites before getting absorbed in playing with the sand.

“No bodies beneath the pier this time,” Jack remarked quietly, and Phryne choked on her chip.

“I still do not know why I didn’t kiss you during that case.”

“You only wanted me for my numismatic knowledge,” he pointed out dryly.

She nudged his shoulder affectionately and grabbed another chip. “Your skills in the water didn’t go amiss either.”

“I believe it was Collins that found the dagger.”

“Believe me, that dagger was _entirely_ incidental in my mind,” she laughed. “On that note, I packed you a new swimming costume.”

“You never pack.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “I had Dot pack you a new swimming costume. One of those new styles from Paris.”

“How can there possibly be new styles of swimwear? It’s _swimwear_.”

She put on her most beguiling face. “Well, these come with removable tops—”

“Oh no.”

“-and I left the top at home?”

“You didn’t.”

She sighed. “I packed your old one as well.”

“Thank you. If I get arrested for public indecency, I’d rather it be for something more interesting than swimming in my underwear.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Jack.”

“I’m relying on it.”

After their meal they headed towards the holiday cottage to gather swimwear, but were back at the beach by mid-afternoon. Anthony took to declaring “Yohoho” and holding his fist up to his eye like a telescope; when Phryne shot Jack a look, wondering if he’d put the boy up to it, he shrugged.

“I think he overheard some girls by the ice cream stand talking about Bonito the pirate. I have no idea where he learnt that’s what a pirate says,” he said, grinning rather impishly, “but I have no intention of stopping it.”

Then he picked Anthony up and carried him to the water, mumbling something to the boy about peglegs and silver. Phryne reclined back on the blanket and watch the two of them frolicking in the shallow water with a smile. Eventually, Jack looked up and waved.

“Joining us, Miss Fisher?”

“Absolutely not. Consider me the British Navy,” Phryne called back with a laugh. “Best if you avoid me entirely or I’ll have to charge you both with piracy.”

The sun and water left Phryne feeling both languid and alive, and she was very thankful they’d decided to go away. The change of scenery with familiar faces seemed to assure Anthony as well, an unexpected benefit. So the week was spent on the beach during the day—and one particularly memorable night, when Phryne and Jack left the boy with Ivy and Jane under a pretense so flimsy Phryne wasn’t entirely sure why they bothered—and at the cottage in the evening, playing games and reading.

 

———

 

In order to focus on the changes in their lives and find an acceptable balance, Phryne had taken a temporary reduction on her caseload. It was not without difficulties—it turned out neither of them had patience for activities that involved hordes of children, but Ivy had younger siblings and enjoyed taking Ant out, as did Mrs. Collins—but was a relaxed transition overall.

By the end of their Queenscliff holiday, Phryne was itching to take on a truly challenging case. Desperate, even. She found it three days after their return to Melbourne, a young woman who had disappeared on her way home from work. The police investigating were less than forthcoming, a fact she bemoaned over dinner that evening.

“I mean, really, Jack, it’s clear Annabel’s never done a thing like this before but Sergeant Rowntree refuses to even consider it as anything but a runaway case.”

Jack made a noncommittal noise—wordlessly indicating that he didn’t know Rowntree, even by reputation, and he was not speculating about another officer’s competence—and continued to eat. Undeterred, Phryne talked over the case, ending with a lament that it was much more pleasant when she worked with City South.

“I am not telephoning City North to find out what’s going on,” Jack said mildly. “I’d likely not have a job to go back to if I did.”

“Oh, the problem is that there isn’t anything going on,” Phryne huffed. “That would imply they expended the effort to investigate in the first place. ”

Jack sighed and offered his unofficial assistance on the case, citing perpetual boredom and a sneaking suspicion he’d have to keep Phryne out of trouble. She wrinkled her nose at him in mock irritation—they both knew he had no such power—and he smirked.

“And perhaps I’ll enjoy this private detective business so much I’ll resign from the police force and set up my own,” he teased.

“That’s good, because don’t think for one minute I’d take you on as partner,” was Phryne’s tart reply.

In the end, he decided that he absolutely loathed the private detection side of things—the police force was far from perfect, but there were rules and regulations and authority associated with the position, and that suited him just fine—but they did retrieve the young woman from where she was being held by coercion, so not a poor result. They even made it home in time for bedtime stories, much to Phryne’s amusement and Jack’s consternation.

“And if you’re very good indeed, Squirrel, dad might take you to the carousel tomorrow,” she said, winking as she swanned out of the room.

Impossible woman.

 

———

 

Anthony continued to thrive, and eventually they were able to mention his mother without causing him extreme distress. Phryne would show him the book of anecdotes and photographs she had compiled during her investigation, determined that he would not forget the woman entirely. By late March he had gained enough confidence that Phryne and Jack were able to leave him with Mairi and take their deferred night away. They left later in the day than they otherwise would have, to reduce the amount of time they were gone, but it was a welcome break.

The cottage was in the middle of nowhere, and Phryne smiled victoriously when she saw it.

“Whatever will we do with ourselves?” she asked coquettishly. “All alone, newly arrived. Anything could happen.”

“I was thinking that I could read a novel in peace and sleep until nine,” Jack replied, and she laughed.

“Oh, that sounds heavenly. And a very long bath.”

“I’ll eat my dinner without first checking that he has.”

“I’ll wear my favourite blouse without worrying about grubby hands.”

“I’ll get you _out_ of your favourite blouse without worrying about interruptions.”

“That might be my favourite one yet,” Phryne said, springing from the car and trotting towards the little cottage. She tossed a salacious look over her shoulder. “Are you coming Jack?”

The answering lust in his eyes made her laugh, loud and long.

“Give it time, Miss Fisher,” was his growled reply.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she smirked.

“You know, I think you might be all talk,” she teased, raising an eyebrow in consideration.

“I most certainly am _not_.”

She turned to face him, raking her eyes over his body with clear intent.

“Prove me wrong, Jack Robinson.”

He closed the distance between them with long, sure strides, and caught her around the waist. Pulling her in for a kiss, he trailed his hands lower, coming to rest on the back of her thighs; she hummed, wrapping her arms securely around his neck, and jumped up. He caught her—he always caught her, somehow—supporting her weight as she wrapped her legs around his waist, and stumbled through the front door and into the bedroom, kissing the entire way.

Once inside the boudoir—a very quick glance told Phryne it was rustic but serviceable before he attention was caught once more by the man before her—they both shed their clothes as they laughed. Naked, Phryne reclined on the bed and met Jack’s eyes as she touched herself; his pupils grew wider and he moved forward, nudging her legs apart so he could fit between her thighs but not entering her.

He paused then, looking at her with such tenderness.

“If I could live the rest of my life in this moment,” he said, reaching out to trail his hand from her shoulder, across her breast as she moaned, past the smooth expanse of her stomach, then into her curls, “If I could, I would be a very happy man.”

He stroked her and she gave a groan of frustration, torn between conceding victory so early and teasing him more; she never backed down from a challenge.

“I’ll just forego the rest of it then, shall I?” she taunted, moving her hips against him. “The whiskey, and the discussions, and the feel of you so deep inside me I forget to breathe?”

His smile was so small and knowing she grew wetter at the sight.

“It would be a shame to miss those, I suppose.”

“Damn right it would. Now come here and I’ll make you a very, _very_ happy man.”

In the afterglow, she pressed a series of small kisses along his jawline, coming to rest against his lips.

“Hello, Jack,” she whispered, and he smiled against her mouth, eyes closed.

“Hello Phryne,” he replied, moving a hand to her hip. She shifted, laying her head against his chest and her fingers across his stomach. They stayed like that for a moment, neither needing nor wanting anything else.

“You seem happier,” she said tentatively, after some indeterminate time.

“Well, I did just—”

“No,” she interjected quietly. “That’s not what I meant. You just seem… _happier_.”

She didn’t quite have the words to explain; the changes in their life sat well on his shoulders, though there was no one detail she could identify. Thankfully he understood.

“Not happier,” he corrected. “But I think, perhaps, my staid soul is more at ease with this happiness. I am, despite my best efforts, far too traditional.” Dear, dear Jack.

“You are far more modern than you give yourself credit for, darling. And when you aren’t, it’s a rather nice balance to my shockingly modern ways.”

He laughed, snaking his hands to rest against her back and hold her close.

“You know, I rather approve of your modern ways.”   

 

———

 

Eventually, it was time for Jack to return to work. Not that he had stayed away from the station entirely during his leave—it was not the sort of job that you _could_ leave entirely, at least not with as little notice as he had given—but there was a difference in knowing that he was scheduled and committed for the full length of a shift.

Phryne grumbled as he slipped out of bed that morning, and he chuckled and kissed the top of her head in apology. He bathed and shaved, getting half-dressed before entering Ant’s room with the intention of bringing the boy to the kitchen for breakfast. He was still asleep though, so Jack quietly retreated and headed downstairs; once in the kitchen he took the cup of coffee from Mr. Butler gratefully and opened the morning newspaper.

He was halfway through his meal when he heard the familiar footsteps of his son, and Jack shifted the paper so there was room at the table beside him. Ant scrambled on to the chair and waited for Mr. Butler’s attention before requesting toast and marmalade for breakfast; Jack turned to him and smiled.

“Morning, Ant,” he said.

The boy mumbled a greeting around his mouthful of toast, as he did every morning. It had become part of the routine; one of these days Jack would actually remember to speak before the food was laid in front of a hungry toddler. The fact that he would have a chance to do so still amazed him. 

After breakfast, Jack headed upstairs to finish dressing; when he came back down Anthony was in the hall.

“Dad!” he shouted, then began to run around Jack’s legs as he chanted. “Dad, dad, dad…”

He stumbled and giggled, and Jack picked him up before he fell.

“Are you dizzy, Ant?” he asked. “That’s a very silly sort of thing to do.”

“Me do!” he replied, nodding adamantly and laughing again. “Dad do? You do?”

“Dad has to go to work today, I’m afraid. You’ll have such a lovely time while I am gone though.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed slightly, considering the words.

“No go. Dad back? Dad back yes?” he asked, clearly worried.

“Of course. I’ll be home for dinner, alright?” Jack said, then heard a familiar voice coming from the kitchen. “I think Nanny Mairi has arrived; she’s come to visit this week. I hear she _might_ even take you to the zoo to see the elephants.”

“Da zoo?” Anthony asked hopefully.

“The zoo,” Jack confirmed. “So give dad a hug and I’ll see you after. I want to hear all about the elephants.”

Ant’s bottom lip began to tremble—he’d recently discovered that it resulted in perfect strangers on the street fawning over him, and deployed it often—but he gave Jack a hug and kiss, then trotted off to the kitchen. Jack watched him go, both relieved to be back at the station and slightly disappointed.

“He’ll be here when you get home,” came a dry voice from the stairs.

He looked up to find Phryne watching him, still half asleep but clearly amused.

“You didn’t have to get up,” he said.

“I did. I have appointments around town most of the day.”

“Ahh, and here I thought you were up to see me off.”

She met him at the foot of the stairs, wrapping her arms around his neck and smiling coyly.

“The thought did cross my mind,” she said. “Before I discarded it. But if you were to, perhaps, convince me of the merits of early rising, I could consider it. For the future.”

He kissed her, slow and sweet, then trailed his fingers from her hair down to rest on the edge of her robe.

“My mother’s here,” he said huskily. “But I could always try again tomorrow.”

“You do that, inspector. I think you may be onto something.”

He kissed her cheek and said goodbye, then grabbed his hat from the peg and headed out the front door.

“Jack!” she called out before he was down the path; he turned to find her in the doorway, looking sleepy and beguiling and so very much like home. “You forgot your briefcase.”

She held the item up, smiling as she did so. He turned, mounted the stairs, and reached for the case.

“I think I deserve recompense,” she laughed, pulling it away, “saving you from this disastrous calamity.”

He kissed her again, snagging the item from her hand when she was distracted. She huffed playfully, then pushed him out the door and shut it behind him. He headed down the path once more, then drove to the station.

When he arrived, he was welcomed back by several of his men. He headed into his office—the locum DI would be by later in the day to bring him up to date with any outstanding issues—and began to go through the pile of paperwork on his desk. Eventually he stopped, needing to retrieve an item from his briefcase. He opened it, and smiled.

Someone—likely not Phryne herself, but on her behest—had framed the photograph Ivy had taken at the courthouse and left it in his briefcase. He chuckled; he looked utterly blindsided, Phryne looked relieved, Jane was smiling, and Ant was staring at Jack with a look of utter adoration. It was a wonderful photograph.

He placed the frame on his desk, looked at it in consideration, removed it. Too prominent a place given the manner of people he had coming through his office. He considered the mantelpiece, but couldn’t see it from his desk; amongst his trophies on the safe, but that was both the previous problems combined; the wall, perhaps, unobtrusively placed? He sighed, opening the top drawer of the desk and placing it face up inside. Until he decided where to put it, the drawer—which he could open whenever the mood struck, but was not for public consumption—would suffice. Then he set to work on the paperwork before him.

Just before lunch there was a knock on the door, and Collins came in.

“There’s been a report of a murder, sir,” he said, giving the address. “An accountant’s office, I believe.”    

And while he was very sorry for the poor sod that was dead, Jack could not help but feel a frisson of relief. He was back on the job he loved and excelled at.

“I’ll be there in just a moment, Collins, if you’ll bring the car around,” he said, adding his signature to the form in front of him

Then he stood, grabbing his hat and coat, and looked around his office to ensure everything was in order. He debated whether to telephone Phryne, a sort of silent statement that things were much as they had always been; in the past he would have seen the scene before deciding though.

Hugh popped his head back into the office.

“Oh, and sir? Miss Fisher is the one who telephoned it in, so you may want to hurry.”

Jack placed the hat on his head and smiled; Miss Fisher was in her element and all was right in the world.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. At this time I don't intend to write any more long stories in this Squirrel-universe, but it will likely pop up from time to time in drabbles and prompted fics. I'm rather too fond of these characters to finish with them entirely. 
> 
> More importantly, however, dear readers, is to thank you for every kudos and comment. This story was an utter challenge--it stretches the characters in ways that are quite difficult to wrap my head around, never mind you as readers--and far more... personal? than I ever expected it to be. Your kind comments and thoughts delighted me and made me teary in turns, and I treasure every single one.

**October 1950**

Anthony stared out at the teeming auditorium. His mother would no doubt have the best seats; ahh, there she was. The family took up the entire row—Mims, Ivy and Jane on one side and Nan Mairi on the other. Aunts and uncles galore, including Uncle Tom from Paringa who had been married into his first family. Mrs. Bowen. Several cousins—most of them had been left at home, but Aggie had charmed her way into the event with some well-deployed tears, and Theo was here as a matter of professional interest, intending to follow Ant's path in a year or two.

He watched them from the edge of the stage where graduates had gathered, smiling at the familiar sight. He could see no less than three men watching his mother—she really could command a room—and trying to suss out whether she was one of the many war widows in Melbourne. Her aubergine coat fit her svelte frame and brought a sheen to the silvered strands in her dark hair, and the dress beneath was probably worth more than the men’s yearly salaries; she was by far the most stunning woman in the room, even Anthony could see that. She was also his Mims, and when she caught his eye she gave a small wave and smiled at him.

The graduation ceremony began, and Ant shifted his attention back to the stage where the first speaker was welcoming the guests and explaining there had been a slight change in plans; Chief Commissioner Warren was unable to make it, and would be replaced by the Victorian Constabulary’s most decorated officer and Chief Detective Inspector for Melbourne.

The man in question took the podium, gave a short speech, then called and greeted each graduating cadet by name.

“Anthony Fisher-Robinson.”

Ant stood, taking a deep breath, and crossed the stage; this was the moment he had dreamt of for as long as he could remember, determined even as a child to follow his father’s footsteps _. O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come_ , he repeated to himself as he often had, _When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum_. It was not a cheery thought, that sense of obligation he'd seen his father carry and he had taken upon himself, but comforting nonetheless. He smiled as he made the final steps, extending his hand towards the CDI for a firm handshake; he was met by a stern face and amused eyes.

“Not a word, Ant,” his father whispered. “I suspect your mother is responsible for the Commissioner’s sudden illness, but I’m not giving her the satisfaction of asking.”

“Now that you mention it, Mims did have Edie Warren around for lunch last week,” Anthony replied, trying not to laugh.

“Of course.”

The two men shared a conspiratorial eye roll and then Anthony moved away so the next cadet could be called. It was a small class, and soon enough they were released to greet their guests. Anthony caught his father’s attention—he was stuck mid-conversation with the wife of some superior, but he nodded subtly and indicated he’d join them soon—then made his way to where his mother was pushing through the crowd. The sight stopped him short.

“Mims?” he asked as she approached. “Are you _crying_?”

“I’m so proud, Squirrel.”

Anthony raised an eyebrow; she hadn’t called him Squirrel in years. Then he hugged her tightly.

“I wouldn’t be here if not for your temporary loss of reason,” he teased; she’d always called it that, a fact that had made him giggle wildly as a child and now made him realise how very much she had done for him.

“I never had much reason to begin with,” she laughed, tears still in her eyes. “Just ask your father.”

“You’ve always had just enough reason for me,” he said.

She breathed deeply and smiled. “Are you still insisting on that dreadful posting?”

“Mims, it’s a morning’s drive. Less at your speeds, though I believe I’ll have to feign ignorance on that,” he said. “I’ll see you all the time. At my age you’d been to war and were flitting around Europe and taking on the world.”

“It was a different time!” she protested with a laugh, and Anthony gave her a hug. She wasn’t really upset, he knew. “I still don’t see _why_.”

“Because if I am going to prove myself, I can’t do it under the shadow of Chief Detective Inspector Robinson. In Campbells Creek I’ll just be Constable Fisher most of the time.”

“You are your father’s son,” she said with a shake of her head. “Insisting on doing everything the hard way.”

“Wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t,” his father said, approaching them.

“Hello, Jack," she said brightly, reaching for his arm. "Wasn’t it serendipitous that Charlie Warren was ill?”

“A stunning coincidence,” he replied, watching her face.

Anthony sighed. Somehow, despite their disparate personalities, they had managed to remain almost nauseatingly in love with each other; he’d learnt to read it early on, in the subtle head tilts and soft smiles that they shared with nobody else and the sharp banter that filled the home. They were doing it again now, having an entire conversation nobody else was privy to. His father leant towards her and whispered something into her ear—Anthony was grateful not to overhear—and then turned to embrace Ant.

“You’ll make a fine officer,” he said when he pulled back, voice tight with emotion. “Very fine indeed.”

“I learnt from the best,” Ant replied.  

His dad groaned. “Do not rely on tricks you picked up from your mother, please.”

“I meant Uncle Hugh,” he smirked.

“I’m not sure whether that’s better or worse.”

“Don’t let Aunt Dot hear you say that. Or Aggie,” Anthony grinned, then grew sombre as he looked at his parents.

He didn’t know what his life would have been like without them, if the string of coincidences had led him to another bed. He was certain it would not have been half as loving and challenging and wonderful. He enveloped them both in a hug, trusting that they would understand what he meant. _I love you. Thank you. I learnt how to be a good man from the two best people in the world._ They hugged him back.

“So,” he said when it was done; none of them were the type to dwell on sentiment. “Where has the rest of the family gotten to?”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Whole of the World](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184615) by [Sarahtoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo)




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